Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

I Apologize by Gil Brewer

Death was stalking me, out in the dark, even here by my side. They had planned it well. It was my last taste of Life— Unless...

I watched Myra come in the front entrance, cross the foyer, and step down into the broad living room. Something was the matter. She could not keep that fact from me. I knew her much too well. Glistening white teeth nibbled at her lower lip. One hand fussed with golden blonde hair, and the other slapped a black purse against the ice-blue skirt of her crisp suit.

I walked over to her.

“Oh, Harry—”

“Something troubling you?”

Abruptly, she gave a sob, and ran across the room, flinging her purse into a chair. She went to the mobile bar and began pouring a drink.

I put one hand across my mouth and stared at her back.

She turned, leaning lightly against the bar, holding the drink in a trembling hand.

“Myra, what is it?”

“Oh, Harry, it’s awful!”

I moved across the room, worried. “You’d better tell me what’s the matter, Myra.”

She stared at me and swallowed. Then she said, “I’ve done something terrible.” Her voice was pitched low. “You know how we fought over buying that Mercedes? You know I didn’t really want to spend the money, and I just wanted an ordinary second car, Harry. But I gave in, didn’t I?”

I nodded, but said nothing.

“Well, Harry. I didn’t really give in. I went kind of crazy, I think. It was all the things, the things we don’t agree on. You’re expensive, Harry.”

“Now, Myra. Let’s not start that again. We’re married, and there are bound to be moments of disagreement. It’s true of any marriage.”

“Stop, Harry. Let me tell you.” She swallowed again, set her glass down, and her eyes were big and round as she watched me. “I was insane, Harry.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, God. I don’t know why I did it.”

“Did what?”

She had me worried now This was not like Myra. Usually, she was quite contained. Too contained, actually, too cool.

She put her head in her hands. “I hired somebody to kill you.”

I took a long breath. “You’re kidding, of course.”

She looked up. “I tell you, Harry. I did it. I went to bars, and I asked around, and finally this man came. He told me about another man, and I met him, and he’s going to kill you.”

My throat was a touch dry. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because... because I know it’s wrong, now. After I thought about it, after I calmed down, I knew how wrong it was.” She fixed her blue-eyed gaze on me. “Oh, Harry, sometimes I hate you. But I don’t want you dead. What shall I do?”

I knew she was speaking the truth. Myra always told the truth. The way she acted only proved it more.

I scratched my chin. “You’ll have to go see this fellow, and call it off, that’s all.”

“I tried.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I went to him. I told him. He just laughed at me. I paid him, you see.”

“How much?”

“Six thousand dollars.”

“And what did he say after he laughed?”

“He told me to get out, stay away from him. He said I’d hired him and he was going to do the job. It was ethics, or something.” She paused. “Harry, can we go to the police?”

I turned and moved to the mobile bar, uncapped the bourbon decanter. I poured a half glass full, thinking, and trying to deal with fear that sprouted like pale mushrooms in my solar-plexus.

“There’s no way of going to the police. They wouldn’t do anything.” I heard myself say that.

“Why wouldn’t they?” She had come over by me, and her fingers were tense on my drinking arm.

“They can’t do anything until after the fact, Myra.” I smiled at her, forcing it as best I could. “You know how much I love you. You know the happiness we’ve had. True, we argue sometimes. But that’s normal. You’ve got to control yourself, darling.”

“But what will we do?”

I took a long drink, emptying the glass. I turned, her hand still plucking at my arm, and poured another.

“Harry — please!”

“When is it supposed to happen?”

“Tonight. He’s coming here. That’s all I know.”

“I see.” I drank some of the fresh drink.

I would not bid good-by to this house. It was much too perfect a life. And, after all, Myra did love me, in her own peculiar fashion. Born of the rich, she sometimes tended to be careless of another person’s desires, but she had her good side.

I was thinking fast. “What time is he coming?”

“I don’t know. Late, I think. Oh, I told him you sit in your study till all hours. He brightened at that. Harry, what are we going to do?”

“I’m taking care of it,” I said. I patted her arm. “Don’t I always take care of everything? We can’t call for help.”

“But Harry—”

“I’m going to meet him on his own ground, Myra. I have that P-38, from World War II. Remember? I’ll wait for him in the study.”

She stared and gave a deep sobbing sigh.

“Don’t fret, darling,” I said. “I lived alone for many years before I met you. I know how to take care of myself. He’s an intruder, probably with a gun. It’s only right to do the best one can, under such circumstances. Agreed?”

I took her in my arms, and kissed her forehead. “Just don’t worry.” I held her away. “Now, it’s after six. Let’s have dinner. Then you can go to bed, and I’ll start my vigil.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.”

I smiled at her. It was like her. The trouble was in someone else’s hands now. She had no further real worry, except about getting to sleep.

“Run along,” I said. “Leave it to me. I’ll tell Winifred.” Winifred was our cook.

“You sure everything’ll be all right?”

I patted her chin. “You know it, Myra.”

“Can... can you ever forgive me?”

I kissed her. “Of course, darling.”

We ate dinner, had two more drinks. At eight-thirty, I sent Myra to bed. She was reluctant to leave me, which was pleasant. Winifred, the cook, had gone home.

I did not feel at all brave, but I knew I had to go through with this. The little devil had lost her mind for a time. I’d have to save us from the consequences.

I went to my study. It was a dark-paneled, book-lined room. Opening a drawer, I found the P-38, took it out, cleaned it, oiled it, and adjusted a fresh clip, with one cartridge in the chamber.

Was I foolhardy? I wondered. It would be either the killer or me. But, as I drew a chair to the center of the room, facing the closed study door, I experienced a heightening of excitement. My mind played around the edges of the coming scene. I hoped I would be quick. I wondered what the man would look like. I knew there must be no hesitance. Shoot quickly.

The chair was placed so it was away from the windows. He could not shoot me from behind. I sat down, rested the automatic in my lap, and began to wait.

No telling when he would appear.

I thought of her up there. Tossing in her bed. I thought of this house. I thought of the strange love that existed between Myra and me. I thought of my desires.

I dozed. One would not expect that to happen, but it did. Abruptly, I came awake. The study door was slowly opening.

I took one quick glance at the wall clock. It was eleven-thirty. The door eased open, and there he was. Powerful, square-faced, a gun in his hand, hanging at his side.

He saw me. He opened his mouth to speak, and at the same time his gun hand lifted quickly.

I was quicker. I shot him three times in the chest.

He fell to the floor. I got up, went over to him, and satisfied myself that he was quite dead. He carried a .45 automatic. It had fallen to the floor beside the body.

I slipped past the dead man, and stepped into the hall.

“Myra?”

I heard running feet. She came fast along the hall, her white nightgown fluttering about slim legs.

“Oh, Harry!”

She flung herself at me. I held her close, and kissed her hair instinctively.

“Come,” I said. “Let me show you.”

“I don’t want to look.”

“Now, Myra. Please come along.”

We entered the study. She moved around the body, and leaned against my desk.

“Is that the man?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Yes. Oh, my God, Harry, you did kill him.”

I smiled. I dropped the P-38 on my chair, and leaning by the body, picked up the .45 automatic the man had carried.

“Well, Myra,” I said. “I always lived alone, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I was never really happy with you, but you had all the money. I admire this house, and with you around, I couldn’t put it to best use.”

“What do you mean, Harry?”

“This,” I said. I shot her just once, carefully. A red blossom appeared on her white nightgown. She looked startled, wide-eyed, as she collapsed on the floor quite dead.

“Don’t you see, Myra?” I said. “I could never really trust you again, after this. The intruder, whoever he was, shot you. And I shot him. It’s perfect, Myra. Now I’ll be alone. But I’ll be quite happy. I apologize, Myra. Really, I do.”