Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 5, No. 11, November 1960

Night of an Execution by Mann Rubin

I shall not be my usual suave, witty, charming self in introducing this drama. I shall merely say that in bringing it to you I have been clever, enterprising and commendably compassionate.

Darcy waited until the guards had finished shaving his legs and the Chaplain was seated across from him, ready to open the Bible, before making his move. He had five minutes before the Warden would arrive.

The gun he withdrew was a small, rusty automatic that had been smuggled to him three weeks previously by a friend, who had stood by him all through his trial and later through his long ordeal to escape the chair, through twelve years in a six-by-six cell on Death Row.

Darcy clicked off the safety-latch to let them know he desired their attention. The two guards were piling his last supper leftovers on a tray and the Chaplain was adjusting his glasses, when the low, metallic sound scraped through the cell like sand-paper. Their three heads turned simultaneously.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said Darcy, “but your astonishment has some foundation. This gun’s loaded. Please cooperate and no one’ll get hurt.”

Fred, the older of the two guards, was the first to recover. His body trembling, he raised his hands, forgetting the half-filled coffee cup he was holding so that it smashed to the floor, splattering his pants with liquid stains. He looked positively abashed, as if he had suddenly caught his best friend kissing his wife.

“You’re crazy. You’ll never get away with it.”

“We’ll see,” said Darcy unperturbed. “Let’s just wait and see.”

Next it was the Chaplain, a tall, white-haired man with a calm, untheatrical manner. Darcy had found him to be extremely well read and a fine conversationalist; he hoped the man would offer no difficulty.

“Put the gun down, William. You don’t have a chance.”

“Please, Chaplain, stay out of this. You know me well enough by this time to realize I’ve weighed and reweighed every detail of this move. Under the circumstances, I know exactly what my chances are for what I want to do.”

A flicker of movement caught the corner of Darcy’s left eye and he turned abruptly, the gun so tightly held it seemed a part of his own flesh. It was Brick, the younger guard, the one Darcy felt might be the most trouble. A big, likeable farmboy, he took pride in his assignment, and through the years had treated Darcy more like a personal friend then a condemned murderer. This relationship plus the total improbability of a convict on Death Row having a gun, had created the laxity that had made it possible for Darcy to get the gun.

Young Brick stood posed, ready to spring into action, more out of hurt then anger; tears welled in his eyes.

“Don’t be a fool,” warned Darcy.

“You dirty louse!” screamed the boy. “I trusted you! Now I see you’re everything they said! They should have killed you years ago!”

“Don’t think they didn’t try,” said Darcy, grinning, rising. He waved the gun menacingly. “Okay, all of you. Back against the far wall. And keep your hands in sight at all times. When I finally leave here, I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

They obeyed him in silence, their eyes continuing to stare bewilderedly at the violence of his action. Each felt personally betrayed. Darcy sensed this, and he sincerly wanted them to understand he wasn’t acting out of a sudden impulse or whim.

“If you’re interested, that coffee pot near my bed is still warm. Also let me recommend the French pastry.”

They ignored his offer.

He shrugged, took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it, and still keeping in the shadows, moved to the front of his cell, where he could observe both ends of the outside corridor without being seen. It was a familiar sight after twelve years, so that even a cursory glance told him all was running according to plan. On the left was the heavy steel door through which the Warden would eventually come, and on the right, twenty-five yards farther down, was the small green door that opened into the execution chamber.

His eyes paused on one other object in the immediate area, a telephone resting on a wooden table half-way between his cell and the execution room. He knew the phone was hooked up on a direct line to the Governor’s mansion. He had heard it ring many times for many men, just as he had heard its silence pronounce final doom on an equal number of men, who walked past it to the green door — never to return. Tonight, it was the most vital instrument in Darcy’s plan, on it depended the success or failure of his entire operation.

“What’s the time?” he asked over his shoulder.

“You have less than ten minutes,” answered the Chaplain, his voice solemn, unforgiving.

“When do you make your break?” asked the young guard.

“Be patient.”

“You’ll be caught.”

“Perhaps.”

“I hope they give you a good long fry for this one.”

“I’m touched by your sentiments.”

He stumped out his cigarette; nothing tasted right tonight. He looked toward the Chaplain.

“What about you? Don’t you have two cents to add?”

“You said you didn’t want my advice.”

“Even so, I can read your eyes. You’re so disappointed in me. I haven’t followed the rules, haven’t conformed to the etiquette expected of someone who’s lived twelve years on Death Row. Where’s my sportsmanship, my school loyalty?”

“I’m not going to condemn you, William. It’s your life. You must know what you’re doing.”

“That’s right, Chaplain. It is my life. Every miserable second of it. I owe nothing to nobody. That’s why my mind’s made up. This is the night I go.”

Silence again. Eyes studying him, puzzled, remote, frightened.

“But what if the Governor calls? What if there’s a reprieve?” someone asked.

Darcy laughed cynically. “You mean like last time?”

“Yes,” said the Chaplain, suddenly emotional as if he sensed a weakness in Darcy’s armor. “Exactly like last time, and the time before that, and all the other times before that. I think the authorities of this state have been most lenient with you.”

“I agree. Most lenient.”

“Then give them another chance.”

“No. Tonight I call the shots.”

He paced silently in front of them. Outside a light rain was falling, but the wind was heavy and dark, brooding clouds cruised the sky making the night blacker than usual. He wondered what people were doing in New York, Chicago, San Francisco. One thing they could always say about him, he was big city all the way; he loved jazz and glitter and a fast pace. That was why the twelve years had been such a nightmare. It was like being buried alive, pebble by pebble, until nothing was left alive in you, not even memories.

He lit another cigarette. Again it was dry and burned raw against his throat. He coughed, flung it away. His palms were sweating like leaking faucets; his nerves felt stretched beyond the confines of his body. What a fool he was; he’d never be able to carry it off, not in a million years. He cursed himself, cursed the endless days of torture and hopelessness which drove him to the brink of this crazy precipice.

Suddenly, came the sound he’d been listening for, the unclasping of the steel bolt on the cell block door as it slid ponderously back from its locked position; the Warden was arriving.

“Darcy, for the last time—”

“Shut up!”

He took a deep breath, his gun cautioning his prisoners for absolute silence. This was it, the last piece in the jig-saw puzzle. Now if only they followed the same procedure that had been followed all the other times. He listened for the tell-tale footsteps.

Always in the past the Warden entered alone, conferred quietly for several minutes with Darcy and the Chaplain, while the two guards on duty remained in the background, and then the Warden signaled an official within the Execution Chamber to admit the large entourage of reporters and State dignitaries, who wished to witness his death, to a special room on the other side of the electric chair, where they could observe his final moments in soundproof comfort.

It was usually at this point that the Governor would call, granting Darcy another stay. His audience would leave, his guards and the Warden would congratulate him on his good fortune, and he’d be returned to his cell to await the outcome of new legal maneuvers, new protest marches, new headlines denouncing him as the vilest, blackest murderer ever to appear in the annals of crime.

He waited. Outside, just beyond his vision, the cell block door swung open, shadows danced along the corridor walls, a flurry of excited whispers came to an abrupt halt, the heavy door creaked on its hinges and swung shut. Darcy pressed deeper into the shadows. Everything depended on the pattern being repeated detail for detail.

More silence. Perspiration dripped from his chin. The men across from him stayed motionless, listening as attentively as he for the first shuffling of feet. Would it be one or many?

Then a single pair of footsteps reverberated across the corridor. The Warden had entered alone. Perfect. Darcy breathed again, smiled fleetingly at his prisoners.

In a matter of seconds he saw the bulbous shape of the Warden come in view. He was a plump man, who moved slowly and took great pride in the progressive way his penitentiary was run.

“Good evening, Darcy,” he said.

“Good evening, Warden,” replied Darcy, and showed the gun. “Nice of you to join the party.”

The plump man bleached white; he was already standing inside the cell, where his excess weight made any thought of agile heroics utterly impossible.

“Where...?”

“Let’s just say it came from outer space, Warden. What’s important is that I’m holding it, and six bullets are in it.”

“You must be out of your mind.”

“Possibly.”

“Damn it, Darcy, don’t you realize there’s an army of people here tonight? Reporters, cameramen, prison authorities, picket lines; even the state militia’s been called out this time. You’d never get two feet beyond this cell block without someone spotting you and giving the alarm.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then give up this ridiculous idea. Spare a lot of innocent bloodshed.”

“I’ve no intention of hurting anyone.”

“Then give me your gun.”

“Not till I’m over the hump.”

“Three minutes to eleven, William,” said the Chaplain. “What can you hope to gain at this point?”

“Don’t you know yet? Don’t any of you know?”

They stood staring at him, a mere three feet away, their faces blank, puzzled, openly hostile. Darcy wanted to yell his heart out, and shake them until at least one felt the pain and terror gnawing his insides. Twelve years he’d lived with it, and how pathetic it was to find this private legacy of fear still nontransferable.

The Warden stirred restlessly; the heat was getting to him, and he was thinking more of his reputation now than of the immediate circumstances.

“I’ll be the laughing-stock of the country once this gets out. I say we’ve got to rush him.” He took a step forward.

“Warden, please,” said Darcy, “don’t make me do something we’ll both be sorry for later.”

The Warden wiped a hand across his red, perspiring face. He glanced at the two guards hopefully.

“You with me, boys?”

“A minute. Another minute,” pleaded Darcy, edging back along the wall. His heart was beating hard against his chest.

“Why? What’s going to happen then? You expecting help?”

“Maybe.”

“He’s bluffing, boys,” said the Warden, attempting another half-step forward. “Rush him, when I give the word.”

Darcy reached the furthest corner of his cell, felt the cold, ungiving steel of the bars penetrate his cotton shirt; this was the end of the line.

The two guards, nervously inched forward, closing their ranks. The air was stifling, noiseless.

“Listen to me,” shouted Darcy. “Twelve years I’ve been in this hell—”

“Brick, you get him from the left,” said the Warden. “And you hit from the right, Fred.”

“Okay, I robbed a bank and a man was killed.”

“Leave the middle for me, boys,” said the Warden.

“Some believed the killing was accidental. Some didn’t. Me — I don’t know anymore. Whether I intentionally pulled the trigger or whether it accidentally fired when I was overpowered from behind, is, after twelve years, hazy in my mind...”

The three men moved in on Darcy, slowly, carefully.

“You understand, I can’t remember what I was feeling when the gun went off. No image from the past focuses. But what does that matter. What’s important is that a jury found me guilty, a judge sentenced me to death, and—”

It was then that the first sharp, jolting ring of the telephone struck, reverberated up and down the length of the entire cell block. It shattered all other sounds, all other motions, it reached each of the men like a blast of clean air.

The Chaplain reacted first. “Thank God,” he said relieved, and stepped forward, his hand outstretched to receive Darcy’s gun.

“No,” said Darcy firmly, the weapon remained clutched in his fist tighter than ever.

The Chaplain stopped dead.

The phone rang a second time.

“Darcy, it’s the Governor. It’s your reprieve,” fumed the Warden, pushing the others out of his way as the phone rang a third time. “Hell, he’s saved you again. Let me go answer it.”

Darcy kept the gun leveled at the plump man’s forehead.

“You move another foot and I’ll kill you, Warden. I swear it.”

“You damn fool,” wailed one guard.

“How long you think he’s going to keep ringing?” screamed the other.

“Get him, boys. He’s out of his head. This time let’s get him,” commanded the Warden, and started to charge forward.

An arm reached out, gripped his wrist, holding him in check. It was the Chaplain.

“Wait. I think I understand. This is his breakout. This is the way he, as an individual, has chosen to go.” He looked toward Darcy for confirmation.

“Chaplain, you and me talk the same language. Thanks.” Darcy smiled appreciatively.

The Warden pulled free of the Chaplain’s grasp, studied both men quizzically. “You’re as crazy as he is,” he told the Chaplain. “If I don’t get to that phone, he pays with his life.”

“I’m afraid it’s out of our hands,” said the Chaplain sadly. He nodded to Darcy. “Go ahead, William, explain.”

In the background, the phone continued to ring. Darcy lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke leisurely, like he had all the time in the world.

“Like I was saying, Warden, I hold no malice toward anyone. Right or wrong, I was convicted and sentenced to die. Over and over again I’ve prepared myself for that finality. Nine times I’ve gotten ready, and nine times, at the last possible moment, I’ve been spared.”

“So why are you complaining?”

“Because suddenly death is easier to face, then living from vacuum to vacuum. That’s dying piecemeal, and I can’t go through it again. Don’t you understand, even murderers have their breaking point. Don’t doom me to another eternity of living hell. Give me the justice I was condemned to, not this torture rack of endless nothingness. I’m not a puppet. I won’t let myself be used by an ambitious governor in an election year to keep his name in the headlines. I want out. I want out the way it was decided by my peers. Please, Warden, don’t answer that phone. This time let the Governor dangle, let him know the meaning of a lost cause; let him wait, and wait...”

In the corridor the phone rang another four times, then went silent. For a long while no one moved or spoke, each seemed oblivious of the others, as if isolated by an inner wall of private thoughts and memories too personal to speak of.

“It’s over,” said Darcy, finally, lowering the gun. “He’ll call your office and a couple of other places before trying this line again. On the other hand, there’s the possibility he might call right back.”

He waited but still the others didn’t respond.

“Well, Warden? Do we proceed as scheduled?”

“You can’t mean it?”

“If I didn’t, don’t you think I would have used this on myself long ago?” He gazed at the gun, then, holding it in the flat of his hand, cautiously extended it toward his captives.

“I told you I was expecting help. Yours. For you see, in truth, I’m somewhat of a coward. Please, just say the right word.”

The Warden hesitated, rubbed again at his fat, glistening face, and tried to catch the eye of one of the others. No one turned; it was to be his decision alone. He took a deep breath and strode closer to the cell window. For a few moments he listened to the raging wind and watched a fleet of dark clouds sweep across an already black horizon. After awhile he turned.

“A bad night,” he murmured. “Wind’s like a sledge-hammer. Bet it’s knocked down phone lines all over the state.” He glanced at his watch, then up at Darcy. “Anyway, I never did cotton to our Governor. Not once in all the years he’s called here, has he ever asked who he was talking to.”

He winked, crossed back to Darcy, hesitated a second time, then quickly lifted the gun from his hand. In a moment he’d emptied the chambers and pushed the weapon deep into his own pocket. For a time they faced each other without speaking.

“So long, boy,” said the Warden, finally. “Gonna miss you. You played a good game of checkers.”

“There’ll be others,” said Darcy.

“I suppose.” Abruptly he turned, pushed open the cell-door, stepped into the corridor and signaled to the official inside the Execution Chamber to admit the impatient crowd of press and witnesses. He looked a last time at Darcy, saying, “Anytime you’re ready.”

Darcy straightened his clothes, kicked off his shoes. The two guards touched his shoulder as they proceeded him out the door. The Chaplain came forward, gently took his arm.

“Pray, Chaplain.”

“For your soul, William?”

“For my soul — and for that phone not to ring again,” said Darcy, and followed the others into the corridor.

The phone remained silent.