101 Mystery Stories

61 The Perfect Time for the Perfect Crime R. L. Stevens

“There is, of course, no such thing as a really perfect crime,” Wadsworth was saying in that positive tone of voice that Billings had found more and more irritating the past ten years.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Billings objected, deliberately stuffing his pipe once again. “Perfect crimes happen every day of the week.”

“Come now, Billings, you’ve been reading mystery stories again!” Wadsworth shifted in the overstuffed chair like a little toad limbering up for the spring. “Do you really think it’s a perfect crime simply because someone hasn’t been arrested for it?”

Billings lit his pipe, still trying to keep the conversation pleasant. “Some writers on the subject claim that the really perfect crime would be the simple murder of a stranger on a dark street. Muggings, robbery — they happen all the time. Men die, and no one ever seems to be arrested.”

“But those crimes are far from perfect,” Wadsworth insisted, “chiefly because the victim is unknown to the murderer. He only happens along at the proper time. My ideal of a really perfect crime would be one in which victim and killer know each other and in which there is a real motive for the crime. A real motive, not merely gain through robbery.”

“Well,” Billings said, “what are the real motives, other than gain? Only fear and hatred, I believe.” He put down his pipe for a moment and rose to pour another bit of brandy into Wadsworth’s glass. It seemed sometimes that they’d been sitting there arguing, discussing, debating all their lives. It seemed — at least, to Billings — that the center of his universe had become these Tuesday evening dinners and disagreements with this man who was no longer really his friend, who had not been his friend for a long time.

Billings wondered, when he thought about it. just how long things could go on like this. Forever? They were both in their late forties. He hated to think ahead to another twenty years of Tuesday night bickerings.

“Fear!” Wadsworth snorted. “A person who kills out of fear can never commit a perfect crime! No, hatred is the only true motive that demands perfection. The hatred of a man for his wife, of a woman for her husband, or...”

“Yes, hatred — deep, festering hatred. But such murders happen all the time,” Billings said coldly.

“All the time — but hardly in a perfect manner.”

“A husband kills his wife in another man’s arms; the jury frees him — the unwritten law. Perfect!”

But Wadsworth only gave another of his annoying snorts. “Far from it! an unplanned act of anger, that’s all.”

“But the jury frees him,” Billings insisted.

“A perfect crime is not one that depends for its success on the whim of a jury.”

“What about a supposedly accidental shooting — say, a hunting accident. And suppose no one can prove premeditation.”

“Same objection. You must stand trial — at least, go before a grand jury. Again there is nothing certain about the outcome.”

“Pretended self-defense?”

“Same objection.”

“But perfect crimes are committed!” Billings insisted, his voice cold again.

Wadsworth only tapped a short, fat finger on the table. “Not deliberately. They are accidental flukes compounded by poor police work or just plain luck on the part of the murderer. I say it is impossible to plan in advance and successfully execute a cold-blooded murder so perfectly that the murderer will never even be brought to trial and will be able to continue living a normal life.”

For a long time Billings was silent, deep in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was very low. “I think, perhaps, that it’s all a matter of timing, my friend. There may not be any such thing as a perfect crime, but I believe there might very well be a perfect time.”

“A what?”

“A perfect time.”

“What are you talking about?”

Billings smiled. “Let me think about it some more. We’ll continue this discussion next Tuesday evening.”

Wadsworth lifted himself to his feet. “That’s fine by me. I have to be getting home anyway. I’ll see you at the usual time.”

Billings watched him go down the street. “Yes,” he said, “at the usual time.”

The following Tuesday was damp and stormy, with a rising wind and a promise of all-night rain. They met for dinner at the little Swiss restaurant which they had long ago agreed on for alternate Tuesdays, and then made their way along the rain-swept streets to Wadsworth’s apartment.

“Out of brandy,” Wadsworth said when they had settled in their chairs. “Have a little port?”

“Anything to warm me,” Billings said unhappily. He’d been looking forward to the brandy. Now he’d have to wait till his own return home.

Wadsworth came in with two glasses. He looked more than ever like a toad. “Given any more thought to last week’s discussion? About the perfect crime?”

“I’ve given it some thought.”

“Decided to commit one?” Wadsworth asked, chuckling as he poured the wine from an amber bottle.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

Wadsworth kept chuckling. “That would be one way of convincing me.” He put down the bottle. “I’ll visit you in jail.”

“I think not. I expect to be successful.”

“And how soon is this great event going to take place? This week?”

“Come now, a really perfect crime takes time. Let’s see — this is November fifteenth. Suppose we say within six months. Suppose we say that I will commit a perfect crime—”

“A perfect murder.”

“—a perfect murder on or before May fifteenth of next year.”

Wadsworth was laughing now. “This is getting better and better! You agree to my other conditions — that the victim must be someone you know, someone you hate?”

Billings stared hard at him over the rim of his glass. “Of course.”

“And the murder must be committed under circumstances that will make you absolutely immune from prosecution?”

“Correct.”

“We must have another drink on this! My, my — this will give us conversation for six months of Tuesday night sessions.”

Billings watched him carefully, and nodded.

But as autumn yielded to winter, and the snow began to collect on the sidewalk, the Tuesday evening meetings grew less frequent. Billings had a cold, Billings was busy, Billings was out of town. And when Wadsworth at last took to dropping in at Billings’ house unexpectedly, he found his friend deep in a mass of thick medical books, poring over pages of tiny type.

“Look,” Wadsworth said at last, when spring was almost around the corner, “what in hell’s the matter with you lately? All winter you’ve been moping around with those books.”

“I have things to learn,” Billings answered.

“Not about that foolish perfect-crime business! I thought you’d forgotten about it. My God, I do believe you’re trying to find some unknown poison! All those books — you’d better stop this, boy — this withdrawing from reality.”

But the worst was yet to come.

The following week Billings resigned from his job at the bank and seemed to withdraw into himself and away from real life even more. Wadsworth learned that his friend had been visiting a psychiatrist, and his fears for the man increased.

Then, early in April, came the final blow. One day Billings had gone completely to pieces in the psychiatrist’s office, and had been committed to an institution.

The first time Wadsworth went to see Billings he could hardly believe what he saw. The doctor merely shook his head and said it was a form of schizophrenia, and that Billings would need a great deal of rest and care.

“But does he always have to stay in that room?” Wadsworth asked.

The other blinked his eyes kindly. “When the weather is better he can walk outside. Maybe in another month.”

Wadsworth talked to his old friend briefly and then went away, promising to return in a few weeks.

The next time things were a bit better, and the time after that the doctor announced that Billings could accompany Wadsworth on a stroll around the grounds. It was a lovely spring day, with birds overhead and a good sampling of leaves already on the trees. Other patients were out too, seemingly unbothered by the high wall that surrounded the place, or the occasional guards that passed on the walks.

Finally, after they’d taken a path that led to the rear of the main building and into a little grove of trees, Wadsworth said, “What do you say we rest on that bench a bit? Mustn’t overdo it, you know.”

“What?” Billings stared around blankly. “Oh, surely. The bench.”

They sat down, and Wadsworth said after an awkward silence, “Whatever happened to you, anyway? What made you go off the deep end? Was it all that medical reading you were doing?”

“I suppose so,” Billings said, looking at his visitor steadily, his eyes and voice cold.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re better today.”

“Yes, I’m better,” Billings answered. “But it’s a day late. I was expecting you yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Today is the sixteenth of May,” Billings said, his voice quiet now.

“Yes... You’re not still remembering those crazy conversations we had, are you? About the perfect murder?”

Billings smiled, and there was something terrifying about it. “I am not only remembering, but I have succeeded in it, my friend.”

“Succeeded in committing a perfect murder?”

“A perfect murder.” Billings leaned forward, as if to tell his secret.

“Those medical books I spent so many months over — I was merely learning everything I could about schizophrenia and related mental disorders. Learning it for only one reason — so I could fake all this!”

“Fake? Fake what?” Wadsworth pulled back a bit on the bench.

“Fake this insanity, of course. I spoke to you of the perfect time, didn’t I? Well, this it! The perfect time to commit the perfect murder is when you’re confined to an institution and certified legally insane.”

Wadsworth opened his mouth — but no words came out.

Billings leaned closer and said, “They can’t even try me for it. And in a year or so I’ll suddenly begin to show signs of recovery. Shortly after that I’ll be released, free as a bird — and I’ll have committed the perfect crime!”

Wadsworth started to rise, but already Billings’ left hand was pulling him down.

“Who are you going to kill?” Wadsworth asked, his voice shaky.

Billings’ other hand shot out from under his jacket. The hand was holding a stained and weathered knife whose blade was narrow from prolonged sharpening.

“Why, you, of course,” Billings said with almost a chuckle. “I thought you knew.”

Wadsworth twisted away. “Where did you get that knife?”

“I stole it from the craft shop. I’ve had a long time to plan this — a long time for my hatred.”

The knife glistened suddenly as the sun caught the sweep and thrust of the blade.

The doctor shook his head sadly and looked away. “A terrible thing, terrible! And I thought he was coming along so well!”

They were sitting in the doctor’s office, waiting for the police to arrive, with the bloodstained knife on the desk between them. “Don’t you think we should have left the knife in the body, Doctor?”

“You needn’t worry,” the doctor answered reassuringly. “The police won’t even press charges when they hear what happened. After all, Billings was legally insane when they brought him here.”

“Still, it’s an awful thing to kill a man.”

“But it was self-defense. You had no choice, Mr. Wadsworth.” Wadsworth nodded sadly, all the time thinking how much simpler the knife had made things. It hadn’t even been necessary to use the gun he had brought along — to satisfy his own long-festering hatred.