Fletcher Flora - The First Golden Age of Mystery & Crime MEGAPACK™ - 26 Stories by Fletcher Flora

“No. This is the first time, but I assure you it won’t be the last.”

“I hope not. I sincerely do. Are you new in the neighborhood?”

“I moved into the house at the other end of the block just two days ago.”

“If you’d care to open a charge account, I’d be glad to accommodate you.”

“I’ll think about it. It might be convenient. My husband is dead, and I must work for my living. That’s why I moved here. Starting Monday, I have a job as file clerk at the cement plant.”

“I’m sure an account would work out satisfactorily for both of us.”

“You’re very kind. Anyhow, I shall certainly come again. My name, incidentally, is Mrs. Hardy. Caroline Hardy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hardy. I’m Cameron Fleming.”

She smiled again and nodded briskly.

“Well, I must get back. I’m really not quite settled yet. Good-by, Mr. Fleming.”

That was on Thursday. On Saturday she returned to open an account and buy a week’s supply of groceries.

Although she arrived at a time when trade was slack, the store being empty of other customers, their second encounter lacked, nevertheless, the delicious intimacy of the first. This was due to the presence of Jimmy Cobb, an explosion of red hair and freckles that Cameron employed as a part-time assistant for fifty cents an hour. His presence this day did not actually hamper Cameron’s actions in any way, for they would have been totally innocent in any event, but he managed, just by being there, to take the fine edge off things.

In the end, however, Jimmy proved himself useful, for Cameron ordered him home with Mrs. Hardy to carry the two large sacks of groceries that she bought.

Like all merchants, Cameron delighted in making large sales, but it must be said that his delight on this occasion was qualified by regret. Mrs. Hardy having bought for the week, it followed that it would be that long before he would see her again. The thought depressed him, but soon he was whistling softly as he went about his work.

It was entirely possible, after all, that Mrs. Hardy had forgotten some necessary staple and would have to return for it during the coming week. In Cameron’s experience, women were always remembering the cakes and caviar and completely forgetting the sugar and salt.

And so, indeed, it turned out. Wednesday afternoon, about five-thirty, the telephone rang, and Cameron answered with the routine phrase.

“Fleming’s Grocery.”

“This is Caroline Hardy, Mr. Fleming.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hardy. What can I do for you?”

“Is Jimmy Cobb there?”

“Yes, Jimmy’s here.”

“Well, I’m in the middle of baking, and I discover that I have no baking powder. I wonder if you could have Jimmy run right up with a can?”

“Certainly. Right away, Mrs. Hardy.”

“It’s very accommodating of you.”

Cameron’s accommodation did not end with his agreement to send the baking powder. Leaving Jimmy to mind the store, a rare occurrence, he gave the delivery his personal attention. Three minutes later, having walked up the block by way of the alley, he was approaching Mrs. Hardy’s back door.

Mrs. Hardy, in the kitchen, was at once domestic and alluring in stretch pants protected by a bright patch of apron. Millicent, thought Cameron sadly, never wore stretch pants in the kitchen or elsewhere, and if she had the effect would hardly have been comparable.

“Why... Mr. Fleming!” Mrs. Hardy said. “How kind of you to come yourself. I’ve put you to no end of trouble.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Cameron said. “Jimmy was busy, and I thought the walk would do me good.”

“Well, you must stay and rest a moment. May I offer you something? Coffee? A glass of sherry?”

Strangely exhilarated, shedding restraint with a sense of daring, Cameron accepted sherry. The sherry, poured from a bottle taken from a kitchen cabinet, was of cooking quality, but, being no connoisseur of wines, he did not know the difference.

Mrs. Hardy had a glass with him as a convivial gesture, and he was astonished, consulting his watch on the return trip down the alley, to discover that he had lingered in the kitchen a full ten minutes. In the store, under the completely innocent observation of Jimmy Cobb, he had a delicious sense of guilt, as if he had just come hot and smoking from an assignation.

Gradually thereafter, over a period of several months, his relationship with Caroline Hardy took on the aspects of discreet infidelity — a thoroughly chaste affair. As time passed it seemed that Mrs. Hardy found it necessary more and more often to call for emergency deliveries, and by some odd trick of circumstances they invariably came just when Cameron was feeling that a short walk would do him good. The quality of the sherry did not improve, but the consumption of it materially increased.

Cameron could not remember later just when titles and surnames were abandoned. They simply became to each other, at some point is the lapse of time, Caroline and Cameron. And it became apparent, even to a man as modest as he, that she responded to his unexpressed feelings with an emotion equally intense, although equally mute.

He could hardly believe his incredible good luck. It seemed impossible that she could actually be attracted to such a dull fellow, and he began to wonder, examining his reflection in the glass door of his refrigerator, if he was such a dull fellow after all.

Without ever touching each other, they became lovers. At least they did in the mind of Cameron Fleming. He took her tenderly in a dozen repeated dreams, and it was only a small step from there to the bitter wish that he were free to take her in fact. Perhaps he would have been if he had tried, but he was deterred by his natural timidity and the conviction that she would be amenable to seduction only if it were not extramarital.

Having no grounds for divorce, and no hope of it, he was forced to find his freedom, as he took his love, only in fantasy.

But divorce is merely one way to lose a wife. There are other ways, and death is one of them. The death of Millicent began to share his dreams with the love of Caroline, the former being in his judgment a prerequisite to the latter. Millicent, of course, showed no signs whatever of dying, but natural dying is merely one kind of death.

There are other kinds, and murder is one of them. The murder of Millicent began to replace in his dreams the natural death of Millicent, the former being in his judgment the only reasonable alternative to the latter.

It was Caroline herself who gave urgency to his dream. She had come into the store quite late, just before closing time, and had asked for a can of peas. He had squatted down before the bottom shelf on which the canned peas were stocked and had asked her choice of brands. She had squatted beside him to see for herself what choice there was, and suddenly, side by side on their haunches and touching each other with only their lips, they were kissing.

After a while, she stood up and sighed and smoothed her skirt over her hips with her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?” he said, rising beside her.

“Because it was wrong.”

“Why was it wrong?”

“Because you’re married.”

“I wish I weren’t.”

“If you want to know the truth,” she said, “so do I.”

But if it was she who thus gave his dream urgency, it was chance that gave it purpose and direction.

As if he were simply playing a deadly game to amuse himself, he began to think, of all the ways a woman could be made to die, and the game was made immensely she went first info the bathroom, for this arrangement gave her time, while he himself executed the essential small functions dictated by hygiene, and biology, to brew his coffee and poach his egg and toast his bread.