Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

Stop Killing Me by Hal Dresner

It is difficult to imagine, after all these centuries of filling and conflict, that there might exist an entirely neglected, if not totally new, murder weapon. What havoc should it be universally adopted!

The pudgy woman straightened the small black hat which sat like a sparrow on the nest of her freshly blued hair and approached Desk Sergeant Bevelow. She waited, anxiously turning her purse in her pale fingers, until the sergeant looked up from his report, and then she said: “My name is Mrs. Frances Turchin. I live at 6310 East Howard Street, Staten Island. My husband is killing me.”

“My wife is killing me,” Sergeant Bevelow responded pleasantly. “Are you lodging a complaint, Mrs... ah...”

“Turchin. Mrs. Frances Turchin. My husband’s name is Bernard W., 6310 East Howard Street, Staten Island... Aren’t you writing any of this down?”

“Not until you lodge a formal complaint, no, ma’am. The city doesn’t like us to waste paper. Now you say your husband has tried to kill you?”

“No. I said he is killing me. Right this minute while I’m talking to you he’s killing me. Don’t you understand?”

“No, ma’am,” said Sergeant Bevelow. “I don’t believe I do. Your husband has made an attempt on your life, is that right?”

“No, no, no,” said Mrs. Turchin, kneading her purse. “He hasn’t done anything but keep on saying that he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me. A hundred times a day for the last three weeks. In person, over the telephone, at home, in the car. Every chance he gets. Friday night we were at the movies and right in the best part he turns to me and says ‘I’m going to kill you, Frances’. It ruined the whole picture for me.”

“Has he ever made these threats in the company of other persons?” asked Sergeant Bevelow.

“Of course. I told you he says it every chance he gets. It doesn’t matter if somebody is around or nor. Two weeks ago, my sister was over for dinner and right in the middle when she’s talking about her neighbor’s cancer, he says ‘Excuse me a minute, Velma,’ and turns to me and says, ‘I’m going to kill you, Frances,’ and then he laughs and tells my sister to go on with her story.” Mrs. Turchin rubbed her fingers together nervously. “You don’t believe me,” she said, “you can call him up right now. He’ll tell you himself. Ulster-9-2704. He’ll tell you. He’s very proud of it. He says it’s the easiest way to kill a person anyone ever thought of. Call him, he’ll tell you and then he’ll laugh. Oh, that laugh! It’s like a private joke that only be knows. If I hear that laugh again, I think I’ll go out of my mind.”

“You’re certain that your husband is serious about this and he’s not just making a joke?” said Sergeant Bevelow.

“If he says he’s serious, he’s serious. And with this he says he’s serious. Go call him, you’ll find out for yourself. Ulster-9-2704.”

“Has he said how he plans to kill you, ma’am?”

“Of course. Certainly. He says probably I’ll get run over by a car. If not, he says, I’ll fall down some stairs and break my neck; we live on the third floor. Or if not that, then maybe I’ll take too many sleeping pills. I take sleeping pills,” she explained. “I don’t know how many I’ve taken since he started with this crazy thing. Maybe too many already. And still I can’t sleep. A couple of times, I doze off and he pokes me and wakes me up and says ‘I’m going to kill you, Frances’. Then he goes back to sleep and I lie there all night worrying. That’s how he’s killing me.”

“You mean you think he’s worrying you to death?” Sergeant Bevelow said.

“That’s it exactly,” said Mrs. Turchin. “He’s killing me with worry. So one of these days I’m going to be worrying so much I’m going to step in front of a car or fall down three flights of stairs or... oh, what’s the use? It’s just like he planned. The other night he said to me that he gives me a week more at the most. A week and by then, I’ll be dead. And you know something?”

“What, ma’am?”

“I believe him. I believe him.” Her fingers squeezed at her purse. “Even today on the way over here, I was worrying about it so much, I didn’t see the bus I was waiting for. I was standing right out in the street. If some nice girl hadn’t pulled me back, he would have killed me right then.”

“Your husband,” said Sergeant Bevelow.

“Of course, my husband,” said Mrs. Turchin. “Who are we talking about?” She touched her hat which had been on straight, thus making it crooked. “Thank God I haven’t got a heart condition or he would have finished me a long time ago. Even so, I’m jumping every time I hear a sound. And he says he gives me a week at the most. I’ll be lucky if I live a week. So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know what we can do about it, ma’am. If you’d like to swear out a complaint against your husband, we can—”

“What kind of complaint? I told you he’s killing me. Isn’t that enough of a complaint? By the time I start with complaints and papers and subpoenas, I’ll be dead already. I don’t want to swear out any complaints. I want you to speak to him and tell him to stop killing me.”

“I suppose I could do that if you’d like, ma’am. But first would you mind explaining why you think your husband is trying to kill you?”

“Because I won’t divorce him,” said Mrs. Turchin firmly. “That’s all. Just because I won’t divorce him. Is that a reason to kill a person?”

“I’ve known some who thought it was,” said the sergeant.

“But he doesn’t want to divorce me,” said Mrs. Turchin. “Oh no. For that, he’s too chivalrous. That, he says, would make him look bad in front of his family and his friends. I’ve got to do the divorcing myself or else he’ll kill me. Well, he can kill first,” she said decisively. “Because I’ll never divorce him. Imagine. At my age, where would I find another husband?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sergeant Bevelow.

“So,” said Mrs. Turchin. “Ulster 9-2704.”

“Did your husband say why he wants you to divorce him, ma’am? I mean, perhaps this is something that should be settled by a marriage counsellor instead of the police.”

“He says there are a thousand and one reasons. And all of them are crazy. You want me to give you some of his crazy reasons?”

“If you don’t mind, ma’am.”

“I don’t mind. They’re all crazy reasons, you’ll see for yourself. Crazy reason number one: Became I don’t cook well enough. We’ve been married twenty-three years and suddenly he decides I don’t cook well enough, so either I divorce him or he’s killing me. You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sergeant Bevelow.

“Is this your wife?” Mrs. Turchin asked of the framed picture on the sergeant’s desk.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very sweet looking woman. Does she cook well?”

“About average I guess, ma’am.”

“You see? Nobody’s perfect. Crazy reason number two: Because I’m not as beautiful as I was when he married me. Is that a crazy reason or not? How long have you been married, if I may ask?”

“Fourteen years next May, ma’am.”

“And is your wife as beautiful as when you married her? Be honest, not polite now.”

“No. I don’t guess you could say she is.”

“So!” said Mrs. Turchin with a curt nod. “Crazy reason number three: Because he says he’s got nothing else to talk to me about. We’ve been married twenty-three years and he says he’s all talked out as far as I’m concerned and he doesn’t care to listen to anything else I have to say either. How is that for a crazy reason? Don’t you have times when you don’t have anything to say to your wife?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And that’s a reason for divorce or killing? Does he think I’ve got so much to say to him? I’ve been married as long as he has, you know. Then, crazy reason number four: Because I clutter up the bathroom with my things. So what woman doesn’t clutter up the bathroom with her things? I’ve got cosmetics, cleansers, shampoo. I keep as much as I can on my dresser. What can I do with the rest? Put it in the closet? I need it every day. Where does your wife keep her cosmetics?”

“In the bathroom, ma’am.”

“There you are,” said Mrs. Turchin triumphantly. “Crazy reason number five—”

“Excuse me,” said Sergeant Bevelow. “But I think I understand the situation now. If you’d like, I’ll call your husband and have a talk with him.”

“Oh, I’m so glad. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Ulster-9-2704. Bernard W. Turchin. You want me to wait while you talk to him?”

“No, ma’am. I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll just ask him to come down here at his first opportunity and we’ll have a little chat then.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Turchin. “Thank you. I really don’t know what I would have done... just today when I was coming over here I was standing in the street thinking about it and... oh, but I told you about that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You see? You see the way he’s made me? A week at the most he says he gives me. I’ll be lucky if I get home all right.”

“Would you like me to have an officer drive you, ma’am?”

“No, no, don’t bother. I’ll be all right. Just talking to you has made me feel much better. If only he’ll stop that killing me, killing me, killing me, every minute... Well, thank you again. You’ve got the number now? It’s Ulster-9-2704.”

“Ulster-9-2704,” said Sergeant Bevelow.

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Turchin “Well, thank you again.”

“Quite all right, ma’am.”

Sergeant Bevelow watched until the woman had walked through the door. Twice in that time he saw her straighten the small black hat which sat like a sparrow on the nest of her freshly blued hair. He seriously doubted if she felt much better for having spoken to him. She still looked as if she might distractedly step in front of a car or fall down a flight of stairs. Not today perhaps, but probably soon. Very possibly within the week.

Sergeant Bevelow looked at the report on his desk, tapping it thoughtfully with the eraser end of his pencil. Then he picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Ulster-9-2704.

“Mr. Bernard Turchin?” he said when a voice answered... “This is Desk Sergeant Stanley Bevelow of the Fourth Precinct. I wonder if it would be possible for you to stop down here sometime today?... No, it’s nothing official,” Sergeant Bevelow said and glancing over at the picture of his wife, “it’s purely a personal matter. In fact I’d appreciate it if you could make it after I get off duty... Oh, about six would be fine, fine...”