100 Malicious Little Mysteries

Twice Around the Block by Lawrence Treat

At an hour after midnight, only a handful of people got off at the subway station that served the huge, sprawling, small-homes development called Sunny Hills. Harry, big and handsome and blustery, was by intention the last one out.

He had the cap, the glove, and the knife, well concealed under his coat. He was never without them, for he did not know just when his chance would come. Maybe tonight, maybe not for two or three weeks. It would come when he was able to walk past the night watchman’s shack without being seen.

Although Harry’s plans had been perfected for some time, he was smart enough not to push them. He’d stood Mary for three years, he could wait a little longer. Besides, she had a part-time job in a department store, and she handed him her pay envelope every week.

Mary did it meekly, pleased that they were finally building up a savings account. He’d always made good money, but he spent it all on himself. He had flash and style to him, although he hadn’t realized how exceptional he was in that respect until Velma moved in next door.

He never could understand why a woman like Velma had landed in Sunny Hills, where even the small, neat houses were so monotonously alike that you could hardly tell them apart. But she spoke vaguely of some trouble she’d been in, and he gathered that she’d been forced to quit her job in the night club where she’d had the hat-check concession.

From the moment they saw each other, they sparked like a pair of high tension wires, and neither of them had tried to resist. Shortly after the first crackle, Harry had managed to get himself transferred to the night shift so that he could see her during the day — without frustrating complications.

But it wasn’t satisfying. The nights were what depressed him, going back to the house where he no longer belonged, to the woman he didn’t want, the woman he had grown to hate.

“Kitten,” he had said to Velma once. “If something would only happen to her. If she could meet with an accident—”

“You could make it seem like an accident,” Velma had said in her low, torchy voice.

“If I do, you’re going to be part of it.”

“Well?”

“Maybe it would be smarter to try and get a divorce.”

“You’d have to pay alimony. There wouldn’t be much left.”

“You like money, don’t you?” he’d said. And her black eyes, lifting slowly, practically singed him.

After that, he began his preparations. He bought the roll of film and kept it at home — just in case. He always took the rear car of the subway and was the last one out. Also just in case. And he checked the subway schedule and found out that the night trains ran exactly fifteen minutes apart, and every evening he set his watch by the subway clock. Just in case.

Tonight was no different from the other nights. He came out of the subway exit and looked around to make sure that nobody had noticed him. Except for one cab, with the driver dozing over the steering wheel, the street was deserted.

He crossed the roadway and strode down the long block, and for the hundredth time he thought it over. He put his hand in his pocket and touched the knife. He’d found it in a public lavatory. There was no conceivable way of tracing it and no one except Mary had ever glimpsed it.

As he approached the night watchman’s booth he walked fast, the tempo of his pulse lifting. Then he was alongside the cubicle, and his heart gave a sharp, convulsive jerk. Mike Hogan wasn’t there. This was it — the one unbelievable chance.

Harry didn’t panic. He sidled stealthily over to the shadows, beyond the ornamental gateway to Sunny Hills. He put the cap on, pulling it low, and he raised his coat collar. He left the sidewalk and slunk across the front yards, keeping close to the houses. If anybody saw him, they’d take him for a prowler.

All right. Let them see him, let them tell the police later on that a man had sneaked across the lawns. Wake up, you fools, and take a quick look. Quick, but not careful.

At the corner of his block, he turned and glanced behind him. Stay calm now, make sure. When he’d convinced himself that the coast was clear he started running — quietly, with a low, scuttling stoop. He was chuckling to himself, in silent excitement, buoyed up by the certainty that everything would go right.

He put his key in the door and stepped inside. He was glad it was pitch dark. He might have hesitated and drawn back if he’d seen Mary’s face. He wasn’t a cruel man, he told himself. He was merely a man who faced facts.

He took out the knife and snapped it open. His palm was wet, but he gripped the rough handle firmly. He flexed his arm once, his features hardening.

He walked swiftly and soundlessly down the familiar hall. He ascended the one step, and opened the door to the right. Her bed was directly behind it.

He struck savagely and repeatedly. This was the part he’d dreaded, but it was soon over, cleanly, effectively. Her breath caught and she moaned, but she didn’t even wake up.

He wheeled and went out, circled the house and stopped in front of the bedroom window. He put on the thick, heavy glove and punched once at the glass. There was a brittle, crackling sound — and that was all.

When he came into the room again, later, he’d have time to raise the sash, and the evidence of a marauding burglar would be clinched as far as the police were concerned.

He glanced at his watch again. He was surprised that it had taken him only six minutes, and the precision of his timing gave him added confidence.

He returned to the street and began the long circle of the block, back to the subway station. He ran openly now, deliberately keeping to the concrete sidewalk so that his steps thudded audibly. That was part of the plan. He was willing to be seen, at a distance, to establish the presence of somebody running away.

He took the shortcut through the field and stopped at the rubbish pile, where he discarded the glove and the cap. Squinting in the darkness, he took out his keys. If the police should suspect him — if they should make more than a cursory investigation — he didn’t want them to find he had a key to Velma’s house. He threw the key away.

He put his key-ring back in his pocket, set his hat firmly on his head, and marched briskly towards the subway exit. He got there with a couple of minutes to spare, and stood for a moment in the shadows of the adjoining newsstand. He took long, slow, deep breaths, and thought it through again — detail by detail.

He’d forgotten nothing; he’d made no mistakes. He could trust Velma not to talk. She had good reason to stay silent, but if she did break, there was no proof. No witnesses — and no overheard quarrels with Mary. No guilt-pointing link between him and the knife.

He heard the rumble of the subway, and two or three passengers came up the steps. He waited a few seconds, then stepped into the light. The lone cab was still there, the driver awake now. Harry waved to him and continued on his way.

He headed for the watchman’s shack. Hogan would have to go home with him and be present when he discovered the body. That was vitally important. But Harry had laid the background long ago. He’d stopped here night after night for the past month, not missing a single night.

Hogan stepped out of his shelter, recognized Harry, and grinned. “Evening, Harry,” he said. “On the dot, as usual.”

Harry smiled. “Sure, right on schedule. And Mike — that roll of film I told you about. I got it at home for you. It won’t cost you a cent, either.”

“That’s damn nice of you, Harry.”

“Come on back with me, and I’ll give it to you now.”

“Thanks,” said Hogan. He fell into step with Harry and began grumbling endlessly about his camera problems. Harry hardly listened.

As they rounded the corner of his block, Harry took out his keys. He stopped in front of his house — number forty-eight.

“Come in,” he said. “I got them in the bedroom. It won’t take me a minute.”

He put the key in the lock and tried to turn it. It stuck, and he pulled it out to examine it.

“What’s the matter?” said Hogan pleasantly. “Got the wrong key?”

Harry gave him a look of terror and rammed the key back in the lock. The wrong key?

Then the door swung open. Mary, hugging her robe tight around her shoulders, said, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re back. I’m so relieved.”

Harry straightened up, and stared unbelievingly at his wife. A quick, hard lump seemed to rip at his stomach, and he grabbed the doorway for support — the doorway that was identical with Velma’s.

Mary’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “I heard glass break; it woke me,” she said. “I’m sure something happened to that woman next door. And I was so scared. Just think — it might have been me.”