Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 4, No. 1. Whole No. 8, January 1943

Accused by Ruth Chessman

At least twice we have gone on record as averse to publishing the so-called “short short” story, and twice we have published them. In the tradition of inconsistency, we now publish still another — Miss Chessman’s most ingenious “Accused.” A powerful vignette never before published anywhere.

Michael Carriday pressed the bell marked “Prentiss.”

What shall I do? he wondered as he waited. I can’t ask her outright. I can’t say, “Madam, I’ve come courting — but first tell me if you turned on the gas which killed your husband?”

If Mrs. Prentiss were innocent — and he wouldn’t be here at all if he didn’t half think so — such an attitude would ruin his chances.

Stella, the fat maid who opened the door, looked at him dubiously. “Ain’t you the district attorney?” she asked.

“Not today,” he reassured her. “I’m plain Mr. Carriday today. Will you tell Mrs. Prentiss I’m here?”

Stella stood firm, with the air of a faithful servant who knows what liberties she may take.

“You’ve bothered Mrs. Prentiss enough,” she said. “The verdict said not guilty, and that’s the truth. She ain’t going to be bothered no more.”

Michael said patiently, “I’m just here as a friend.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Mrs. Prentiss is a beautiful woman, you know, and she was very brave through the whole messy business. A man remembers those things.”

And that was true — a man did remember a tremolo smile, a pair of pain-filled eyes, a dainty head held proudly. Then, unhappily, he remembered something else. In his mind he saw the kitchen… the fat old man on the floor of the gas-filled room.

“Just tell her I’m here,” he said again.

“Come with me,” Stella said, as if making up her mind and preceded him into the living room.

Michael sat down. The way the chair was placed, he could see the closed door to the kitchen. He got up and changed his seat.

He was not ordinarily finicky about death — a man in his position could not afford to be. He did not turn a hair when he examined, as he frequently had to, a mutilated body. But there was something insidious about gas. It was so harmless, yet so deadly. If he were to commit suicide, he thought, it would be by a bullet, or by drowning — certainly not by gas.

Mrs. Prentiss came into the room. She was wearing a housecoat of pale blue satin and lace. She looked very young; he realized again that she must have been thirty years younger than the paunchy — and dead — Mr. Prentiss.

“Stella tells me you’ve come as a friend,” she said. When she smiled, a little warm wave of pleasure ran through him. She sat down next to him, turning deliberately so that she, too, sat with her back to the kitchen. She was refreshingly lovely, now that the strain was over, and she looked at him with guileless directness.

How had he ever doubted her for a moment? And yet, on the heels of that thought came another: If Mrs. Prentiss were as fat as her husband had been, would Michael still wonder? Or would he be convinced that, with a single quick gesture, she had turned on the gas-cock in the kitchen?

He looked involuntarily at the slender, rounded arms, and so vividly did he picture it that he could almost see the fatal twist of the wrist, could almost hear the hiss of escaping gas, could almost smell it again. If what he feared were true, how could he accept a jury’s verdict of not guilty? Certainly not for the woman he hoped — yes, he almost dared hope — to make his wife.

“You’re going to stay here?” he asked, looking about him, but avoiding the kitchen door.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t. I’m going away for a month or so. Then I’ll see.”

He couldn’t bear the thought of having her gone for so long. He wanted to tell her so, almost did, but his Vermont hard-headedness held him back.

The maid came in with a batch of letters.

“More of them notes, I guess,” she said proudly.

Mrs. Prentiss explained to Michael: “Notes of condolence. Notes of congratulation, too, that the State decided I’m not a murderess.”

Her voice caught, and a quick sympathy welled up in him. “Tell me yourself,” he said hurriedly, carried beyond caution. “Let me hear you say it. I must hear you say you didn’t do it.”

Her nostrils dilated with quick scorn. “What makes you think I care how you feel, Mr. Carriday?” She fussed with the letters in her hand. “You needn’t stop to say goodbye. Stella will show you out.”

“I said it badly,” he cried. “Naturally you don’t care how I feel — yet. I believe all the evidence. I want to believe it. Don’t you see? I just want you to tell me yourself. Just say, ‘Michael, I didn’t do it,’ and I’ll never question it or think of it again. And then I’ll make you care that I care. I swear it. I’ll make you forget every cruel moment you’ve spent in the last month.”

She looked up from the letters which she had been sorting with quick, nervous gestures. Her head lifted proudly.

“I don’t believe you,” she said. She held up the letters. “I’ve been getting letters like this every day. And not one questions my innocence. That was left for the man who says he loves me.” Her contempt stung him.

“There isn’t anyone who cares the way I do!”

“Any one of these people cares more,” she said hotly. “Perfect strangers, too.” She pulled out a letter at random. “Take this one. You’ll find no veiled accusations here.”

She tore the envelope open angrily. Instead of a letter, there fell out a printed slip of paper. Mrs. Prentiss looked up quickly. Her face twitched, and became white, and before Michael could understand, she fainted.

Stella flew to her mistress. Michael tried to slip by her, to obtain the paper which Mrs. Prentiss still held in her lax grasp. But Stella, mingling abuse of him with her endearments for the unconscious woman, made him keep his distance.

Mrs. Prentiss opened her eyes slowly, but recoiled at the sight of him.

“Get out,” she said in a whisper. Her face was set and colorless.

Stella seconded her mistress’s command. “You better go now,” she warned him.

“As you wish,” Michael said. Now was his opportunity! He moved quickly by Stella, and bent over Mrs. Prentiss to say his goodbye. The paper that had caused her to faint lay in plain sight.

Michael looked at it, and knew why Mrs. Prentiss had fainted.

It was the gas bill.

He felt a little faint himself.