100 Malicious Little Mysteries

Grand Exit by Leo R. Ellis

Brett Delane left the key in the front door lock as he hurriedly stumbled down the darkened hallway. Upon entering the study he snapped on the desk lamp. The shaded glow revealed a figure crouched against the wall, the figure of a man, a man who held a gun.

Brett gasped. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he groaned and fell back against the desk, half doubled over, clutching his middle.

The intruder moved out of the shadows and became a man, barely out of his teens, dressed in tight pants and a soiled jacket. Scraggly hair hung around his ears. He held the gun pointed.

Still doubled over, Brett worked his way around the corner of the desk and slumped into the leather chair. He reached for the desk drawer.

“Don’t go for a gun, dad,” the man said.

“Medicine — my medicine.” Brett ignored the gun, thrust across the desk, as he feebly lifted out a vial and fumbled off the top. He placed the vial against his lips and swallowed a tablet with effort. Brett collapsed back in the chair, his eyes closed, his face a deadly white.

The man stared at the slight, silver-haired Brett behind the desk. The gunman’s trigger finger tightened but there was no shot; instead, the man looked back at the open window. His eyes swept across the pictures on the study wall, photographs of Brett Delane in many of the character roles he had played on the stage.

A moan brought the gun muzzle back across the desk again. Still the man did not fire. He brushed his hair back in a nervous, unsure gesture.

Brett’s eyelids fluttered open and his eyes focused across the desk. “What do you want?”

“Loot, man — loot.”

“Take what I have then and get out.”

The man shook his head. “It don’t work out that way now, dad. I figured to blow when I thought you were gone, but you messed things up by coming to life again. Now I’ve got to blast you.”

Brett sat upright. “You can’t mean you’re going to kill me!”

“You get the idea real good. I don’t like witnesses — witnesses get a guy pinched.” The man raised the gun and Brett collapsed in the chair. “Cut the faking,” the man said angrily. “You ain’t dying. I saw you take your medicine.”

Slowly Brett opened his eyes. “But I am dying,” he said in a low voice. He reached out and touched the vial. “This medicine has kept me alive so far, but someday, someday — poof.” He gave a sardonic chuckle. “Perhaps it would be a blessing if you did shoot me. It would be sudden, no drawn-out suffering.”

“This ain’t meant as no favor, pop.”

Brett nodded slowly. “Death is something to dread when it comes slowly. But murder, now that would be a more fitting climax to the career of Brett Delane.” Brett leaned forward and pulled himself to his feet. “Yes, then I would have headlines for my obituary — Noted Actor Dies in Mystery Slaying. Very nice.”

The man backed away. “Man, you’re a nut.”

“No, I’m an actor. It is highly important to an actor to make a grand exit, you see.” Brett raised his arm. “I want my final scene dramatic, packed with emotion and suspense.” Brett dropped his arm. “No actor could ask for more, and since I am to die anyway, I feel that murder would serve as an excellent vehicle in which to frame my passing.”

“Man, you are a N-U-T, a real, genuine filbert.” The man’s gun had drooped, but now it snapped back up as Brett started for the door. “Stand where you are, dad. You ain’t leaving.”

“But I insist this scene be done right. I’ll need the proper wardrobe and I want to get my maroon dressing gown. I don’t suppose you would allow me time for a shower first?”

The gunman jabbed the gun while he clawed at his face with his free hand. “You can’t be that nutty,” he yelled. “Nobody could be nutty enough to fix up for his own murder.” He stopped and his eyes narrowed. “I get it, you’re pulling a fast one. You’ve got this setup rigged somehow.” His eyes darted around the room and stopped at the desk. “A tape recorder — you’re putting this down on tape.” The man dashed across the room.

“I use that machine to study my diction,” Brett said calmly. “You’ll find it quite empty.”

The gunman shoved the recorder to the floor. He made sure the telephone was firmly in the cradle, then ran back to run his hand over the wall. “I got it now, the room’s bugged. You’re trying to stall me until the cops get here.” He whirled and pointed the gun. “It won’t work, I’m going to blow your head off right now.”

“Please, not the head. Shoot me in the body. And there are no hidden microphones.”

The young man’s mouth worked as he tugged at his long hair. “You’re trying to sucker me into some kind of a trap. You want me to kill you, but I’m too smart for that. I’m not buying any murder rap.” He ran to the window and threw one leg over the sill. “You’ll have to die a natural death on your own, dad.” The man slid outside and disappeared.

Brett Delane had finished the second of his two telephone calls when the front door opened and his wife entered. Brett kissed her on the cheek. “Frightfully sorry I had to leave the dinner so abruptly, dear. I should have known that blasted curry would tie my stomach into knots, and I had left my ulcer medicine in the desk drawer.”

Brett helped his wife with her coat. “We had a prowler,” he said. “It was quite a dramatic scene, and I gave a magnificent performance. You’ll hear all about it when the reporters get here. Now be a good girl and hold them while I shower and put on my maroon dressing gown.”