101 Mystery Stories

26 Shatterproof Jack Ritchie

He was a soft-faced man wearing rimless glasses, but he handled the automatic with unmistakable competence.

I was rather surprised at my calmness when I learned the reason for his presence. “It’s a pity to die in ignorance,” I said. “Who hired you to kill me?”

His voice was mild. “I could be an enemy in my own right.”

I had been making a drink in my study when I heard him and turned. Now I finished pouring from the decanter. “I know the enemies I made and you are a stranger. Was it my wife?”

He smiled. “Quite correct. Her motive must be obvious.”

“Yes,” I said. “I have money and apparently she wants it. All of it.” He regarded me objectively. “Your age is?”

“Fifty-three.”

“And your wife is?”

“Twenty-two.”

He clicked his tongue. “You were foolish to expect anything permanent, Mr. Williams.”

I sipped the whiskey. “I expected a divorce after a year or two and a painful settlement. But not death.”

“Your wife is a beautiful woman, but greedy, Mr. Williams. I’m surprised that you never noticed.”

My eyes went to the gun. “I assume you have killed before?”

“Yes.”

“And obviously you enjoy it.”

He nodded. “A morbid pleasure, I admit. But I do.”

I watched him and waited. Finally I said, “You have been here more than two minutes and I am still alive.”

“There is no hurry, Mr. Williams,” he said softly.

“Ah, then the actual killing is not your greatest joy. You must savor the preceding moments.”

“You have insight, Mr. Williams.”

“And as long as I keep you entertained, in one manner or another, I remain alive?”

“Within a time limit, of course.”

“Naturally. A drink, Mr. ...?”

“Smith requires no strain on the memory. Yes, thank you. But please allow me to see what you are doing when you prepare it.”

“It’s hardly likely that I would have poison conveniently at hand for just such an occasion.”

“Hardly likely, but still possible.”

He watched me while I made his drink and then he took an easy chair.

I sat on the davenport. “Where would my wife be at this moment?”

“At a party, Mr. Williams. There will be a dozen people to swear that she never left their sight during the time of your murder.”

“I will be shot by a burglar? An intruder?”

He put his drink on the cocktail table in front of him. “Yes. After I shoot you, I shall of course, wash this glass and return it to your liquor cabinet. And when I leave, I shall wipe all fingerprints from the doorknobs I’ve touched.”

“You will take a few trifles with you? To make the burglar-intruder story more authentic?”

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Williams. The police will assume that the burglar panicked after he killed you and fled empty-handed.”

“That picture on the east wall,” I said. “It’s worth thirty thousand.”

His eyes went to it for a moment and then quickly returned to me. “It is tempting, Mr. Williams. But I desire to possess nothing that will even remotely link me to you. I appreciate art, and especially its monetary value, but not to the extent where I will risk the electric chair.” Then he smiled. “Or were you perhaps offering me the painting? In exchange for your life?”

“It was a thought.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Williams. Once I accept a commission, I am not dissuaded. It is a matter of professional pride.”

I put my drink on the table. “Are you waiting for me to show fear, Mr. Smith?”

“You will show it.”

“And then you will kill me?”

His eyes flickered. “It is a strain, isn’t it, Mr. Williams? To be afraid and not to dare show it.”

“Do you expect your victims to beg?” I asked.

“They do. In one manner or another.”

“They appeal to your humanity? And that is hopeless?”

“It is hopeless.”

“They offer you money?”

“Very often.”

“Is that hopeless, too?”

“So far it has been, Mr. Williams.”

“Behind the picture I pointed out to you, Mr. Smith, there is a wall safe.”

He gave the painting another brief glance. “Yes.”

“It contains five thousand dollars.”

“That is a lot of money, Mr. Williams.”

I picked up my glass and went to the painting. I opened the safe, selected a brown envelope and then finished my drink. I put the empty glass in the safe and twirled the knob.

Smith’s eyes were drawn to the envelope. “Bring that here, please.”

I put the envelope on the cocktail table in front of him.

He looked at it for a few moments and then up at me. “Did you actually think you could buy your life?”

I lit a cigarette. “No. You are, shall we say, incorruptible.”

He frowned slightly. “But still you brought me the five thousand?”

I picked up the envelope and tapped its contents out on the table. “Old receipts. All completely valueless to you.”

He showed the color of irritation. “What do you think this has possibly gained you?”

“The opportunity to go to the safe and put your glass inside it.”

His eyes flicked to the glass in front of him. “That was yours. Not mine.”

I smiled. “That was your glass, Mr. Smith. And I imagine that the police will wonder what an empty glass is doing in my safe. I rather think, especially since this will be a case of murder, that they will have the intelligence to take fingerprints.”

His eyes narrowed. “I haven’t taken my eyes off you for a moment. You couldn’t have switched our glasses.”

“No? I seem to recall that at least twice you looked at the painting.”

Automatically he looked in that direction again. “Only for a second or two.”

“It was enough.”

He was perspiring faintly. “I say it was impossible.”

“Then I am afraid you will be greatly surprised when the police come for you. And after a little time, you will have the delightful opportunity of facing death in the electric chair. You will share your victims’ anticipation of death with the addition of a great deal more time in which to let your imagination play with the topic. I’m sure you’ve read accounts of executions in the electric chair?”

His finger seemed to tighten on the trigger.

“I wonder how you’ll go,” I said. “You’ve probably pictured yourself meeting death with calmness and fortitude. But that is a common comforting delusion, Mr. Smith. You will more likely have to be dragged...”

His voice was level. “Open that safe or I’ll kill you.”

I laughed. “Really now, Mr. Smith, we both know that obviously you will kill me if I do open the safe.”

A half a minute went by before he spoke. “What do you intend to do with the glass?”

“If you don’t murder me — and I rather think you won’t now — I will take it to a private detective agency and have your fingerprints reproduced. I will put them, along with a note containing pertinent information, inside a sealed envelope. And I will leave instructions that, in the event I die violently, even if the occurrence appears accidental, the envelope be forwarded to the police.”

Smith stared at me and then he took a breath. “All that won’t be necessary. I will leave now and you will never see me again.”

I shook my head. “I prefer my plan. It provides protection for my future.”

He was thoughtful. “Why don’t you go direct to the police?”

“I have my reasons.”

His eyes went down to his gun and then he put it in his pocket. An idea came to him. “Your wife could very easily hire someone else to kill you.”

“Yes. She could do that.”

“I would be accused of your death. I could go to the electric chair.”

“I imagine so. Unless...”

Smith waited.

“Unless, of course, she were unable to hire anyone.”

“But there are probably half dozen others...” He stopped.

I smiled. “Did my wife tell you where she is now?”

“Just that she’d be at a place called the Petersons’. She will leave at eleven.”

“Eleven? A good time. It will be very dark tonight. Do you know the Petersons’ address?”

He stared at me. “No.”

“In Bridgehampton,” I said, and I gave him the house number.

Our eyes held for half a minute.

“It’s something you must do,” I said softly. “For your own protection.”

He buttoned his coat slowly. “And where will you be at eleven, Mr. Williams?”

“At my club, probably playing cards with five or six friends. They will no doubt commiserate with me when I receive word that my wife has been... shot?”

“It all depends on the circumstances and the opportunity.” He smiled thinly. “Did you ever love her?”

I picked up a jade figurine and examined it. “I was extremely fond of this piece when I first bought it. Now it bores me. I will replace it with another.”

When he was gone, there was just enough time to take the glass to a detective agency before I went on to the club.

Not the glass in the safe, of course. It held nothing but my own fingerprints.

I took the one Mr. Smith left on the cocktail table when he departed.

The prints of Mr. Smith’s fingers developed quite clearly.