Breathe No More My Lady

He stood up, studied the body, the ground: he was thinking clearly, the top-flight mystery writer looking for a plot witch. The rods weren't touched. Her canvas shoes hadn't been torn by the root. He pulled back the floppy hat: there was a suggestion of blood on her lips and nose but no blood on either the rock or the ground. Her forehead was discolored and of a queer shape, like a cracked egg. Matt turned the hat down over her eyes.

“Don't understand why there isn't any blood,” Matt told himself, “But it's a break. Now... Fran must have told the Hunters she was going fishing. Okay, she stood up to cast, lost her balance, struck her head on the side of the boat, fell over and drowned? No, that's out, any medical examiner could prove she was dead before she hit the water. Suppose she's found hanging over the side of the boat, just her face resting on the water? That would hold up, hitting the side of the boat would be the cause of death, not drowning. Sure, she stood up to cast, lost her balance, hit her head. Would such a blow cause death? Hell, it had to, it did! What's my alibi? Do I need one? May probably heard me drive up in the car even if the Hunters didn't. But no reason for May to check the time I arrived. As for the Hunters, they're half-bagged, shouldn't be hard to confuse them on a time lapse of a half hour. Can I work that corny bit of changing and rechanging the clocks I used in the old pulps? I'll think of... damn, wonder if anyone else is fishing in this end of the bay? Although I can swim out and back underwater with my outfit!”

Matt picked up the cardboard box and ran to the boat-house—the bay was empty. He ran back and picked up Fran-cine, carried her down to the little rowboat beached on the sand. He raced back and picked up the fishing gear, carefully studied the ground in the shade of the pine trees. He ran back, his heart pounding. He quickly put an old reel on Francine's rod, hooked and baited the line. Matt thought: Damn, good I posted all the land around here, little chance of anyone seeing me—although always a chance of some dumb kid being in the woods. I don't have to worry about fingerprints, I've often used her tackle. Now—what made her trip? A shoe lace caught on the broken duckboards. Poor Fran, always after me to fix them. Then her head would hit about... here. Would it make a dent in the wooden gunwale?” I think so. But have I the guts to bang Fran's head against the boat?

Matt quickly stripped nude, found a large rock on the sandy bottom of the water, a rock almost as large and smooth as a skull. He took careful aim and banged it on the gunwale, slightly crushing the wood. It seemed to make a terrific sound and Matt froze for a second, waiting to see if the noise brought anybody on the run.

For a horrible, fleeting moment, his nerves started to snap, like the rubber bands flying off an open golf ball. He forced himself to be calm as he thought: I have to get this over with. If anybody sees me now, this second, I'm cooked. Oh, my God, I have to be careful. I must think clearly... so very very clearly. And I must work fast.

Throwing the rock as far out into the bay as he could, Matt then washed the beaten wood to remove any particles of rock or sand. Feeling sick to his quivering stomach he deposited Fran's body on the seat and worked a shoelace under the duckboard. With sudden inspiration he jerked her canvas shoe hard enough to snap the lace, leaving part of it still entwined in the boards. Taking the bailing can, he doused the shoe and lace with water to remove any prints. The sun would soon dry the shoe. Beside, a damp shoe was common in a rowboat.

Racing time, Matt put on the face mask and tested the air tanks. They worked fine. Strapping the big rubber flippers on his feet, Matt next put the anchor in the front of the boat, after first dragging the rope through the water to remove the sand. Then, pushing the boat free of the beach, he was about to pull the outboard down into the water and start it... but yanked his hand back as if he had touched a flame. “That was close!” he whispered to himself. “Real dumb! Motor makes such a racket it might have been heard at the house. Damn, I have to think, think clearly.”

He started swimming, one hand holding the bow of the boat, swimming and drifting out with the tide, carefully checking the bay and the boat. “There's only two holes in this,” Matt told himself. “Somebody can be watching me from the lousy woods. And the post office clerk in Hampton might remember my getting the package, even under a phony name. Knowing I have this diving outfit could make the cops suspicious... nothing I can do about it now but chance it. Oh, God.”

Several hundred yards from the shore, Fran's favorite spot for King fish, Matt pulled the anchor over. He let out some fishing ling, and on further thought, released the brake on the reel so the line went out with the tide: Fran would have had the reel free when she started to cast. Next, Matt adjusted the mask on his face and the air intake. Closing his eyes he reached up, nearly tipping the boat, cupped his free hand around the back of her head... opening his eyes he brought the front of her skull down exactly where the rock had hit the side of the boat.

Her body hung over the side of the boat, the floppy hat resting on the water, one limp hand in the water. The fishing rod stuck out at a crazy angle from under her bent body. Matt swam to the stern and pulled the tilted outboard so that the propeller was in the water. Then, floating on his back, he slowly ran his eyes over the boat, checking every detail— his heart pounding so he wondered if he was about to have an attack. The weight of her body made the rowboat list to that side, but there wasn't any danger of it tipping, nor of the corpse falling overboard. The anchor was holding, and swimming closer he saw traces of blood and hair in the smashed wood.

For a long moment Matt stared at his wife, at the body he had enjoyed and tormented so often. His grief and sorrow twisted his stomach into a knot. He swam over and held on to the anchor rope, pulled off the glass face plate and gave up. A moment later his strength and calm returned and he submerged and swam toward the shore. His nose was bleeding slightly as he stood up on the beach and his ears ached. He carefully spread the mask and oxygen tanks on the docks to dry. As he walked up and down, letting the sun warm and dry his skin, he thought: Perhaps tomorrow I'll drive back to Hampton, hang around the post office. No way the clerk can place the exact day when the box arrived. Or is there? It was insured. Why am I worrying about the damn package so much?

Dressing, he debated whether it would be best to hide the lung in the boat house, or take it back to the car trunk. He could always say Fran had known all about his ordering the skin diving outfit. Then why under a pen name? But then he had checking accounts under his several writing names... Matt decided to hide the box in the sail locker but it worried him. Somehow, he had a feeling the aqua-lung was the weak link in things.

Walking back toward the house, he nearly fainted when passing the spot where Fran had fallen; but forced himself to study it for a moment, then walked on—rapidly. Exactly forty-seven minutes had elapsed. And Joel Hunter was still sleeping on the beach mat and Wilma snoozing in the chair. Matt sat (gently) in another chair, noticing with relief that neither of them was wearing a watch. He wanted a drink real badly, looked at the cocktail shaker but didn't touch it As Matt picked up a magazine from the wrought iron table, the poodle stretched and yawned, came over and sniffed at Matt's legs. Matt glanced at the house. May? But afternoons were her hardest time. Of course, she might have looked out of the window, might have even noticed him sitting down just now... Still, there was little chance of May being certain of the time. Matt thought: Hell with May, let me set up the Hunters. Use the time switch I had in the first Inspector O'Cohen book. Jeez, so damn much hinges on this play.

Matt pushed the poodle so his hind legs touched Joel. Joel blinked. Shielding his sleepy, drunken eyes with a slim hand he said, “Oh, it's you, Matt. Want to take a swim?”

“Where's Fran?”

“Fishing. What a delicious day. The sun is just exquisite.”

Matt glanced at his watch—holding up his wrist for Joel to see—knowing he was too far away for Joel to make out the hands. It was 3:27 p.m. as Matt said casually, “It's only a quarter to three. Why not wait until Fran returns?”

Joel nodded and Matt opened the magazine. After staring up at the clean sky for a moment, Joel dozed off. Matt glanced at Wilma—she was still sleeping. He watched the even movements of her chest and smiled into the magazine. He thought: This sure changes things. Poor Fran was right, no sense in having Hank around too much. Risky. I'll try to help him,... whatever way I can and... I can't even fully realize yet what this does mean. Why, I can get married again! First I'll take a trip to Europe, fruit around, then settle down with a young babe. Oh, God, I sound like an old roue. I need a drink, but bad.

At exactly 3:30 P.M. he picked up a pebble, tossed it at Wilma's bare stomach, pretended he was reading. Wilma sat up, pushing her breasts out as she stretched. She tasted her tongue, ran a hand over her thighs. She said, “I feel dehydrated—if that's the right word. Anything left in the shaker?”

Matt rubbed his eyes, yawned, then got up and carried the shaker to her. They each took a swig of mostly ice water and he said, forcing himself to sound gay, “I'd love to see you naked now—dehydrated nude.”

“Stop it. What's the time?” He tried not to show his relief as he held his wrist in front of her face. “Three-thirty. Going to sleep the afternoon away?

“Be too late for a swim soon,” Wilma said. She got up and went over and tickled Joel's ear with her big toe. “Rise and shine, sleepy-head. It's nearly four.”

Joel sat up, yawning. “Wish I'd put some oil on myself. Scotch and the sun—best sleep pill ever invented.”

Matt said softly but clearly, “You've been snoring for the last three quarters of an hour. I could hardly finish this article for the racket.”

“Now, Matt, I really don't snore.”

“Yes, you do.” Matt reached over and stuck his wrist in Joel's red face. “Remember when you asked me the time before and I showed you the watch and you saw it was only 2:45? Well, now it's 3:30 and man, you should have the appetite of a lumber jack because you've been sawing logs and making a hell of a racket all that time.”

“Prof. Anthony and his corny lectures on the fine art of snoring,” Wilma said. “Frankly, if Joel does snore he does it artistically, like he does everything else.”

“Thank you, my good wifey,” Joel said. “Fran have any hick?”

“Why, I didn't hear her return,” Matt said. “Surprising, too, she usually doesn't have patience for more than an hour's fishing.” Matt rubbed his eyes. “I read a lot, listening to Joel snoring. Rather interesting article on Africa. Read it, Joel, you might try a serious kids book—plight of two half-colored kids in Capetown.” Matt shadow-boxed his way over to the house, called for May. When she appeared— an apron over her shorts—he asked, “Has Fran come back yet?”

“No. I haven't seen her.”

“Would you mind going down to the beach and if she's within shouting distance, tell her we're ready to go swimming,” Matt said, thinking: It should take her about three minutes to reach the dock.

He glanced at his watch as he returned to the Hunters. Exactly three minutes and eight seconds later they all heard May scream.

Matt was dictating in his den when the village cop knocked on the door. He'd had several good hookers and while Matt wasn't high, his nerves were relaxed. To his surprise— and admiration—he had been able to get into the story he was working on and had actually done a dozen pages.

Matt stood in the doorway and nodded at the local cop, said, “Hello, Ted,” and glanced at the thickset man standing behind the young policeman. The dumpy-looking man was wearing a cheap and badly fitting summer suit. The coconut straw hat—still on his head—was stained with sweat and other things. The plain sports shirt struggled to circle the bull neck. The man looked like a barrel of lard to most people, but Matt, who had gone in for weight lifting and had studied muscles, knew the man was tremendously strong.

With a mild note of apology in his voice, Ted said, “Sorry to disturb you again, Mr. Anthony. Ah... this here is Detective Walter Kolcicki, from the D.A.'s office in the county seat.”

“Not disturbing me at all. How do you do, Detective Kolcicki,” Matt held out his hand. Kolcicki's hand weighed a ton.

“Let's sit down. I got some routine questions.” The detective's voice was low, almost bored.

“Of course,” Matt said, amused by the round stupid face. He walked to his desk and pulled up two chairs. “I was in the midst of some work. I not only have a deadline to meet, but I find work helps take my mind off the tragedy.”

Kolcicki sat down beside the desk, nodded at Ted who had remained in the doorway. As Ted started to close the door, from the outside, Matt called out, “Ask May to give you some imported beer I have.”

Matt sat down and tried to smile. Kolcicki stared at Matt, his eyes large and emotionless. Matt asked, “Have you ever read any of my books?”

“Nope.”

“Well, I'm anxious to cooperate in every way.”

Kolcicki pushed his hat back on his head, said nothing.

“You may be interested in knowing I have worked with the New York City Police Department, and with the D.A's office in Los Angeles. In my work I...”

“Did you threaten to kill your wife this afternoon?” Kolcicki's voice was hard and blunt.

Mart's heart began to race as he held out his hands, shrugged. “No. Not really.”

“These other people, the Hunters, they say you did.”

“Oh I said it, you know, we had a little fuss. Words that have no real... hell, man, you call somebody a bastard without meaning it.”

“I never say it unless I mean it. You bastard, why did you kill her?”

Matt nearly jumped out of his chair. He fought to control his voice as he asked, “Do you realize what you're saying?”

“Yeah.”

“Now see here, while I understand you have a job to do, I've been through a great deal today and... Look, there's nothing to be gained by bluffing. I talked to the police and the medical examiner, and both their reports clearly state my wife's death was an accident. Obviously while fishing she—”

Detective Kolcicki said a common four letter word, one that Matt had used hundreds of times in his books, yet it never sounded as harsh and brutal as when it came from the detective's fat mouth.

Matt began to sweat and the pounding of his heart shook his whole body. He had read and written a great deal about the third degree methods of the police, undoubtedly exaggerating it in his mind, and had a deadly fear of such torture. There was a case where the police drilled a suspect's teeth until... Matt ran a hand over his face, forced himself to say calmly and slowly, “Hadn't we better get a few things straight, officer? I'm not some migratory farmhand who doesn't know his rights. I'm a well-known writer, and not without influence. You're a small town cop and view this as a chance to make a name. Be careful you don't make a fool of yourself.”

“Yeah, I'm a hick cop. But before this I worked Homicide in Chicago for 14 years. Cut the bull, Anthony. You threaten to kill your wife and two hours later she's dead. For me, that adds. I ain't here asking if you did it—I want to know why you killed her.”

“Don't be an ass! My wife obviously tripped while standing in a boat, struck her head on the—”

Almost in slow motion Detective Kolcicki reached over and punched Matt in the stomach. It was a terrible blow, bent Matt double, paralyzing him with pain and fear. Matt had done a lot of careful boxing, once or twice even sparred with pros, but he had never been hit like this. His heart seemed to be galloping out of his open mouth.

“Bastard! Tell me why, then how you did it!” The voice was still low and horribly impersonal, except for the word 'bastard' which had the chill of death about it.

A hundred story twists for outwitting the stupid cop, a dozen Judo holds he had so well described in his books, ran through Matt's brain like a runaway film. He gasped, “You... you... don't you realize I glorify... guys... like you?” He took a deep and painful breath. “I... I... make you heroic... Yes... I make you guys famous...!”

Kolcicki didn't seem to hear, his eyes watching Matt with a cold calm as if he was studying him under a glass. More air returned to Matt's tortured lungs and scenes of swinging rubber hoses, gouged eyes, blackjacks and their metal cores, broken faces, joined the racing movie in his mind. He said, “See here... I... I demand a lawyer!”

“Yeah, when you've signed a confession. Louse, why did you do it?”

Matt frantically thought of yelling into the phone, of screaming for help, even of turning on the recorder switch, getting it all down on tape. Would the swish of a sap make enough sound? He said, “Listen to me; I have proof that I was with Joel Hunter at the time the medical examiner fixed Fran's death. The police know this...”

As his own hand crept toward the recording switch he saw the detective's wide fist coming at him again. Matt tried to scream, yell, but only a weak hiss came from his open mouth as the fist seemed to ram his jumping heart through his back. The blow knocked Matt over the back of the chair. He hit the floor hard, both hands pressing his agonized belly. Without showing any strain, Kolcicki straightened up the chair, then picked up Matt's big body, actually tossed him into the chair. He hadn't even disturbed his straw hat as he sat down and asked, “Come on, why?”

Matt gasped, “I... have... a bad... heart... you're... killing me.”

Kolcicki said his favorite four letter word again, almost spit it out. Through a jumble of thoughts flashing in his mind Matt thought: This dirty sonofabitch is treating me like a punk. If I can only get to my feet, clout him with a good right... but then he'll take out his blackjack and beat me to death. Lord, is this the end? Am I such a coward? Is this real? Is this stupid cop too smart for me? There mast be a way out of...

“I'm waiting, why did you kill her?”

“I demand the—” Matt saw Kolcicki draw back his pudgy fist again and Matt cried out, “I'll tell you! I'll tell you exactly what happened! I lied to the police. But it was an accident! I never touched her. We were in the pines and she wanted to know what I had in a box I was carrying. She tripped and fell against a rock. I'll show you the rock. I realized after what I'd said... about killing her... how things would look. I tried to make it look more like an accident. I took the body out into the bay in the boat. I'll show you the skin-diving outfit I used. I'll show you everything. That's the truth! I swear it!”

Kolcicki said the four letter word again and it hit Matt like a whip lash. The detective punched Matt squarely over the heart Matt went tumbling over and over into a welcome darkness. He thought he had escaped and it was a maddening shock to come to seconds later, find himself face down on his desk, hearing the dull voice saying, “Keep talking but give me the truth. You clever bastards with your fancy words. So you was skin-diving? What did you do, swim out underwater and take her by surprise?”

Mart's head was spinning so he suddenly wished his pounding heart would explode, take him out of this nightmare. But his heart began to beat normally, although the rest of his stomach and side were afire with pain. “I told you, I didn't—”

“Don't give me this accident jive unless you want another taste of my fist.”

“But it was a... a...”

Kolcicki punched him on the shoulder this time. Matt mumbled, “I really have a bad heart and—”

“Bastard, who you think you're stalling? Now the truth!”

Matt sat up. “Damn you, I am telling you the truth! It all happened the way I said. You see Fran had the fishing tackle in her hands, couldn't break her fall, so... her head struck first and—”

As the fist started for him Matt drew back hard against his chair and screamed—although hardly any sound came from his lips. There was a low thud of Kolcicki's fist smacking Mart's stomach. Matt collapsed in his chair, gasping for breath. He was sure of only one thing: he couldn't take another blow.

As Kolcicki stood up, Matt heard himself cry in a distant voice, “Don't! Don't hit me! All right, all right! Please don't hit me again. I'll say what you—you want. Tell me what to say, but don't hit me.” His words died in a whisper.

Kolcicki pulled Matt erect in the chair, grunted, “I ain't even started on your kidneys yet. I'll have you pissing blood for weeks.”

“Tell me what to say?”

“You know what to say. Just make it good. Good. You understand, bastard? None of your fancy crap. You ready?”

Hands pressed to his aching body, Matt nodded dumbly.

The detective glanced about, saw the typewriter on its little metal table. He carried it over to his chair, took a piece of clean paper from Matt's desk, inserted it in the machine. He said, “Now you start talking. If you talk right, you'll sign this. If you don't, I'll bust every rib in your goddam body. Now talk—and not too damn fast, either.”

Kolcicki began typing. Even in his daze, the opening sentence of a confession suddenly appeared very clearly in Matt's mind: I, Matt Anthony, voluntarily do....

Sitting there with his dirty hat still on, Kolcicki typed with expert ease. The detective's typing efficiency was the last straw for Matt, completed his fright and terror—increased it. And he knew he was trapped, that the confession would stand up in court. Kolcicki was good, he'd make him write a logical confession.

Matt shut his eyes. Shame, reason, everything fled. He was too frightened to care about anything except to be free of Kolcicki's animal eyes and iron fists.

Kolcicki said coldly, his stubby fingers resting on the typewriter keys, “Start talking. And talk right, or I'll really work you over. I ain't even got a sweat up, yet, bastard!”

His voice a whine, a lifeless whisper, Matt Anthony began dictating another mystery, another fiction story.