Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

He could see what had caused the marbleized effect. It wasn’t that the blood had spurted of its own accord: it was the strokes of the Samurai sword that had splashed it like that — all over everything.

It was too big a job; he felt he could never swing it.

And then he reminded himself: you got rid of her body, didn’t you? If you did that, you can do this too.

He then did another of those incongruous things that he kept doing all the way through. He picked up the shaker from the night before, got out the gin and the vermouth, and made himself two more martinis. He left out the olives though.

Feeling more confident now, he changed to his work clothes. He even took off his shoes and remained in his socks. Paint spots on shoes could be just as hard to remove and just as incriminating as paint underneath fingernails.

When he began the new paint job he realized that he didn’t have to be too finicky about it — they couldn’t arrest you just because your painting wasn’t up to major league standards. The daubing went as fast as a speed-cop’s motorcycle on the way with a ticket. Almost before he knew it, he had all four sides done, including the one that hadn’t needed it. The latter he threw in by way of artistic flourish. The room would have looked queer with three walls one color and the fourth another.

The ladder folded, the buckets out of the way, the overalls and gauntlets stripped off, he stood in the center of the room and took a comprehensive look at his handiwork — and drew a deep sigh. Not only of relief, but somewhat of cocksure pride.

It might not have been the best paint job that had ever been done, but it guaranteed one thing: the walls were bloodless; the damning stains were completely covered up.

The furniture, of course, was going to be a different matter. Fortunately, it wasn’t outsized, the room itself being fairly small. He rolled up the rug and stood it in a comer, just inside the front door.

This part of the program, he knew, would be less arduous than the walls, but it was also going to be a good deal more risky. It necessitated arson.

He slipped out and made a tour of inspection of the skeleton bungalows that sprouted past hers, giving the interior of each one a quick glance.

The first three were too close to hers for his purpose — the inference might be a little too easy to draw. The one at the opposite end was nothing but a gouged-out foundation and poured concrete. The next-to-the-last already had its two-by-fours up, but no flooring or roofing. The next one in had enough wooden construction — plus a lot of shavings — to be ideal: it was like starting a fire in an empty lathe-basket.

Three trips were necessary. He carried the rolled rug, the removable cushions from settee and chair, a small end-table, a parchment lampshade, and whatever else had been stained beyond hope of cover-up, to the unfinished bungalow. He didn’t forget to include the suit he had worn the night before. He made a pyre of these, topped it off with the paint-impregnated overalls, gauntlets, and brushes, and poured on the highly-inflammable residue from the paint cans.

Then he drained gas from his car, using a receptacle he’d brought from the bungalow, leaving just enough in the tank to get him home, and liberally doused it not only on the mount itself but on the wood around it.

He turned his car around, facing in the direction he was to go, killed the engine, and sat waiting, looking all around him. Finally he started the engine again, very softly, like a newborn kitten purring, picked up a furled newspaper, took a lighter out of his pocket, clicked it twice to make sure it was in working order, got out of the car, leaving the door open in readiness, and went inside the unfinished house.

He came out again at a run — this was the first time since he’d killed her that he moved fast — jumped in the car and started off with a surge. He only closed the door after he was careening along, foot tight to the floor. This part of the operation, if no other, was split-second schedule, and not a stray moment could be spared.

For as long as the place remained in sight behind him he could see no sign of flickering flame, of incipient fire. After that — who was around to care?

He got out in front of his own door, locked the car, tossed his keys jauntily up into air and caught them deftly in the same hand.

Upstairs, he sprawled out in a chair, legs wide apart, and let out a great sigh of completion, of finality.

“Now let them say I’ve killed her.” Then, sensibly, he amended it to: “Now let them prove I killed her.”

They did neither the one nor the other. They started very circumspectly, very offhandedly, in a very minor key — as those things often happen.

A ring at the doorbell.

Two men were standing there.

“Are you—?”

“Yes, I’m—?”

“Like to ask you a few questions. Mind if we come in?”

“Come in if you want. I have no objections. Why should I?”

“Do you know a Corinne Matthews?”

“I did at one time.” “When was the last time you saw her?”

“What is this — June, isn’t it? Either later February or early

March. I’m not sure which.”

“Not since then?”

“You asked me a minute ago and I told you. If I’d seen her since then, I’d say so.”

“Not since then. That’s your statement?”

“My statement, right”

“Any objection to coming downtown with us? We’d like to question you in further detail.”

“You re the police. When you ask people to come downtown with you, they come downtown with you. No objection.”

They came back again that evening. He went down again the next day. Then back again, down again. Then—

Down again for good.

Held on suspicion of murder.

A back room. Many different rooms, but a back room in particular.

“I suppose now you’re going to beat the hell out of me.”

No, we’re not going to beat the hell out of you — never do. Besides, we’re too sure of you; we don’t want anything to backfire. Juries are funny sometimes. No, we’re going to treat you with, kid gloves. In fact, you’re even going to wear kid shorts when you squat down in the old Easy Chair.”

“Is that what I’m going to do,” he asked wryly, “for something I didn’t do?”

“Save it,” he was advised. “Save it for when you need it, and you’re going to need it plenty.”

All through the long weary day identification followed identification.

Is this the man who bought a pack of cigarettes from you, and handed you in payment a dollar bill with the print of a bloody thumb on one side and a print of a bloody forefinger on the other?”

“That’s him. I thought it was an advertising gag at first, the prints were both so clear. Like for one of them horror movies, where they stencil bloody footprints on the sidewalk m front of the heater, to pull the customers inside. I couldn’t help looking at him while he was pocketing his change. I didn’t call him on it because I could tell the bill wasn’t queer, and he acted so natural, so nonchalant. I even saw him sitting out there smoking for a while afterwards. Yes sir, that’s him all right!”

“I don’t deny it”

“Is this the man who bought a can of Number Two russet-brown paint from you? And gloss. And brushes. And a folding stepladder.”

“That’s him.”

“I don’t deny it.”

“Is this the man who bought a pair of overalls from you? And a pair of work gloves?”

“That’s him.”

“I don’t deny it.”

Room cleared of identifying witnesses.

“Then you took the materials you’ve just confessed you bought and went to work on the living room at One Eighty-two.”