Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 56, No. 2. Whole No. 321, August 1970

Your Days Are Few by Richard O. Lewis[3]

Peter Ambrose was an ambitions, aggressive man — the kind that makes enemies. So it was not at all unusual that he began to receive threatening letters. Warnings? Perhaps — but then the anonymous enemy put teeth in the threats…

Peter Ambrose handed the letter across the desk to Chief of Police Weber. Weber glanced at it and looked up, frowning. “Another one?”

Ambrose nodded. “I got it in the mail this afternoon and brought it right over. I didn’t even bother to open it.” He was a dark-haired man, clean-shaven, manicured, dressed in a tailored suit — an aggressive type of businessman that was grudgingly respected by men and openly admired by some women.

Weber stroked his long chin thoughtfully as his eyes went back to the letter. He was a tall lean man who looked as if he had spent much time worrying about the problems of other people. The address — Ambrose Peter J 2010 W Euclid — had obviously been clipped from a telephone directory before being pasted into place. He slit the envelope carefully and shook out the single bit of white paper. “Your days are few,” he read aloud. “Your end is near at hand.” The words had been cut from a newspaper and, like the address, been pasted into place.

“Could be the work of some kid,” Weber said. “Or someone playing a practical joke.”

“Maybe,” said Ambrose, his square face set into hard lines. “And maybe not!”

Weber let the paper fall from his fingers. “There is really not much we can do about it, one way or another,” he said. “The stamped envelope is the standard type that can be bought in any post office. The scrap of paper could have been torn from any memo pad or piece of typing paper. The letter could have been dropped into any mailbox anywhere in town.”

“But there must be something to go on!” Ambrose insisted. “A clue of some kind!”

“If we get any clue at all,” said Weber, “it will have to come from you.”

“Me?”

“Right. If someone is threatening your life, then that person must have a reason — real or imaginary — for wanting you out of the way. You must have had some unfortunate associations with him quite recently. If so, then you must know the identity of that person.”

“Look!” said Ambrose, his face flushing. “You know as well as I do there are a lot of people who would like to see me out of the way — ever since I began the Lostcreek Park development! There are always those who stand in the way of progress.”

Weber nodded. He was well aware of the furor the Lostcreek venture had created among some of the citizenry. Lostcreek Park was a narrow strip of land that, until recently, had been owned by the city. It wasn’t much of a place, really — a strip of wilderness with a few weedy footpaths among the trees and shrubs, a tiny stream that went nowhere, and a miniature waterfall. Surrounded by sedate, mansionlike homes of an earlier era, the little plot had lain there for years, all but forgotten.

Ambrose had seen his chance, gained legal title to the strip, and was now in the process of clearing it and building boxlike houses for people of low or middle income. Too late, the homeowners surrounding the property saw what was happening. Their quiet, meandering avenues would soon be turned into noisy thoroughfares carrying factory workers to and from their jobs at all hours of the day and night, and the entire area would become vulnerable to hordes of screaming children. They rose up in protest, but there was little they could do. No zoning laws or building restrictions had ever been established there, for, up until now, none had been needed.

“I have a legal right to develop that site,” Ambrose said defiantly. “And I have a right to sell to whoever wishes to buy.”

“I doubt if anyone in that part of town is actually trying to get rid of you,” said Weber. “More likely, someone is just trying to frighten you off.”

It was late that afternoon when Ambrose finally drove out to the development area and stopped his car in front of the field office he had built there. To the south of him several houses had already been completed and a few more were under construction. North of him a rock ledge had been blasted away.

He entered the office, sat down at the desk, and stared into space. He had stuck his neck out. That was for certain. With his wife’s inheritance, his own savings, and all the credit he could get, he had made the big plunge. Unexpected lawsuits had taken their toll, and now he was strapped. Unless he could get hold of some cash soon, he would have to halt construction until he was able to sell the finished houses at a profit to recoup his capital. That would mean that he would have to go plodding along, selling one house before building another, and not really getting anywhere. At least, not getting anywhere as fast as he wanted to.

Plodding was not a part of Peter Ambrose’s nature. The advent of two new factories in town would soon create a wave of prosperity. Peter Ambrose intended to ride the crest of that wave, make a killing, then roll rapidly higher to even greater things. And he was determined to let nothing stand in his way.

The telephone on his desk jangled. Even before he picked up the instrument he knew who the caller would be — his wife, Alice.

“Yes?” he said.

“It’s nearly six o’clock,” said Alice. “Time for me to leave. I thought I’d call and remind you that dinner is in the oven. You sometimes forget—”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“But you should eat something!” she insisted. “Maybe I should stay home — that is, if you want me to—”

“No, no,” he said. “You go ahead. I’ve got work to do when I get home, will be busy for hours.”

“I cleaned your desk for you,” said Alice. “I polished it real nice and put everything back exactly the way it was—”

“Fine, fine,” said Ambrose. “Now, you run along.” And he hung up.

For the first two years of their married life they had lived in the neighboring town of Plainsville, and Alice had joined a bridge club composed of four other women of her own age. Each Friday night they had enjoyed a 6:30 dinner, followed by two hours of cards and gossip. When the larger city of Newton had lured Peter into moving there in search of greater opportunities, Alice Would have gladly given up the bridge club, but Peter had urged her to continue. “You need a night out once in a while,” he had told her. Now, more than once, he had been glad that he had insisted she make the weekly drive to Plainsville on Friday nights…

Before leaving the development area that night, Ambrose made a quick trip to a small building of corrugated iron a short distance away from his field office. He let himself into the building with a duplicate key he’d had made a couple of months ago. Minutes later he was back in the field office again, an open brief case lying on his desk. He took the two sticks of dynamite from his pocket, taped them with care to the three sticks he already had in case, and tucked the lethal package into the bottom drawer of the desk. He had taken the dynamite sticks one or two at a time during the past few weeks, careful not to arouse the suspicions of Bartel, the construction boss.

When Ambrose brought his black sedan to a halt in his home driveway, he noted with satisfaction that Alice had already left in the little two-door. He carried his attaché case containing legal documents, plans, and architectural drawings into the house and placed it on his desk. The desk was so highly polished that he could almost see himself in its glossy surface. He shook his head slowly. She was always cleaning and polishing the house and everything in it! When she wasn’t doing that, she was fawning over him, waiting on him hand and foot, tryint to anticipate his every need. At first he had welcomed and enjoyed her attentions. But they had soon become annoying. And now he felt only a deep aversion to them.

He sank into his chair, picked up the telephone, and dialed a familiar number. Gloria Stone answered almost immediately, her contralto voice a heady, vibrant melody.

“And how is my little redhead?” Ambrose greeted her.

“Fine,” said Gloria. “And how is my big ambitious tycoon coming along?”

“Right now,” said Ambrose, “I’m busy as hell with architectural drawings. Some of these designers can’t seem to get it through their heads I want inexpensive houses, not mansions!”

“And you also want money and — and other things,” said Gloria.

“And I intend to get them,” Ambrose promised. “Very soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I’ll see you in a day or two,” said Ambrose. “Right?”

“Right,” said Gloria, and hung up.

It was Wednesday afternoon when Ambrose again stood before the desk of Chief of Police Weber.

Weber looked up questioningly. “Another letter?”

“Come,” said Ambrose, through tight lips. “I want to show you something.”

A half block down the street from the station Ambrose stopped beside the two-door he had driven that day. The window in the driver’s side was down. Ambrose pointed through to the opposite window. There was a round hole there, surrounded by an area of splintered glass.

A frown creased Weber’s forehead. “And just how did that happen?” he asked.

“It happened just a few minutes ago while I was driving out to the development. There is an uncleared fringe of trees and brush along the right side of the road. Someone was waiting for me there. Obviously, someone who knows that I generally drive along the road about two o’clock every afternoon.”

“Did you stop to investigate or anything?”

“Look!” snapped Ambrose. “When a slug misses my head by a fraction of an inch I don’t stop to investigate! I get out of there, but fast!”

“Don’t know exactly what we can do,” said Weber. “But I’ll send a couple of the boys out to have a look—”

“Well, it’s about time you did something,” Ambrose said pointedly. “Two threatening letters and now — now this! It’s beginning to get to me! Can’t keep my mind on my work, keep forgetting things.”

Ambrose drove the car to a garage, had the rest of the broken window removed, and ordered a replacement.

“We’ll have it here by tomorrow,” the mechanic promised, “and can install it in no time at all.”

Ambrose shook his head. “I’ll be tied up all day tomorrow. How about late Friday afternoon? I can bring the car around then.”

“Fine. We’ll be ready for you.”

A half hour later Ambrose parked the car in the shaded drive of a little cottage at the edge of town. He went to the door and pushed the pearl button.

The door opened almost immediately, and Gloria Stone stepped to one side and made a sweeping gesture for him to enter. Her low-cut white blouse and mauve stretch pants immediately stirred Ambrose.

In a moment they were on the sofa, locked in each other’s arms.

“And how is my financial wizard doing now?” Gloria asked, finally pushing him away. “Things shaping up?”

“Just fine,” said Ambrose knowing full well what she meant. “I think I’ll be able to start the divorce proceedings sometime next week.”

Sure. Let her believe he was planning to get a divorce. That way it would be better for everybody concerned.

He had met the red-headed Gloria nearly a year ago when she had come to Newton in search of a house. Her husband had died a few months earlier, and she had wanted to make a clean break from everything in the past — including the snoopy relatives in the town where she had lived. Before she had finally bought a house from his listings, he had spent the greater part of three weeks showing her about, during which time they had become acquainted — intimately. And after she had taken up residency in her new home, the intimacy had continued — mostly on Friday nights while Alice was playing bridge.

The vivacious Gloria had paid cash for the house, and it hadn’t taken Ambrose long to learn that she had received a large enough inheritance from her late husband to live gracefully for a long time to come. Because of their friendship he had hoped to get enough money from her to finish the Lostcreek Park venture and reap a quick harvest. But she had demurred.

“When I place money on a horse,” she had said, her green eyes flashing, “I’ll be doing the riding. Where Gloria’s money goes, Gloria goes.”

The implication had been plain enough.

And so Ambrose had been faced with an important decision. With the fawning, housecleaning, cloying Alice — and his growing accumulation of debts — it would take him years of struggle before he could get even close to where he wanted to be. But with the beautiful Gloria — and her ready cash — he could become a rich man almost overnight, a power to be reckoned with in the city of Newton. Together he and Gloria could go places!

It had not taken him long to reach the practical solution: get rid of Alice. He had considered divorcing her, but had dismissed the idea almost immediately. First, he had no real grounds for divorce. Second, she might suddenly become stubborn — since he had used her inheritance to initiate the Lostcreek Park venture — and demand the return of her money as part of the divorce settlement. Or, equally bad, a smart lawyer might get her a substantial interest in his holdings along with heavy alimony. Either way it would spell ruin as far as his future was concerned.

Divorce being out, there was only the obvious alternative, and he had devised a foolproof plan to bring about that alternative, a plan that he hadn’t even dared to tell Gloria. It was much better if she believed he was about to begin divorce proceedings. If she knew he was capable of getting rid of an unwanted mate, she might very well hesitate about placing herself in similar peril by marrying him.

Now, on the sofa, he took her hand in his and looked gravely at it. “There is something I should tell you, Gloria,” he said. “I don’t want to alarm you, but my life has been threatened several times during the last week or so. I have received two anonymous letters, and this afternoon on my way to the park someone shot a hole through my car window, the slug barely missing me.”

Gloria drew back, her eyes round with concern. “But… but why?” she wanted to know. “Why would anyone want to kill you?”

Ambrose shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe because of the Lostcreek deal. Or it could be, of course, that someone is just trying to frighten me.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s that!” said Gloria. “Now that I’ve come this close to getting you, I don’t want to lose you!”

“Chief Weber and his boys are working on the thing. They may come up with something soon. But I must admit that the threats have unnerved me to the point where I scarcely know that I’m doing half the time, I’m so absent-minded.”

On Friday morning Ambrose drove the black sedan to his downtown office and spent several hours with two young architects. At two o’clock that afternoon he drove out to the Lostcreek development, as usual, and entered the field office where he spent an hour with Bartel, going over construction progress and a few plan changes.

“If anyone comes around to look at houses or lots this afternoon,” he told Bartel when they had finished, “you show them around. I’ve got to take the two-door to a garage and get a window replaced. Probably won’t be back the rest of the afternoon.”

Bartel nodded, picked up his sheaf of papers, and left.

Ambrose waited a while, then took the brief case from the bottom drawer and placed it carefully on the desk. He opened it and checked his wrist watch. Four o’clock. He set the timer so that it would detonate the charge in exactly two hours and fifteen minutes. 6:15. Alice would be midway between Newton and Plainsville. And he, Ambrose, would be just arriving home.

He carried the brief case to the sedan and placed it unobtrusively on the floor directly against the back of the driver’s seat, then got in and drove away.

He had gone over his plan step by step many times during the past few weeks and could find no flaw. Certainly Chief Weber would never suspect that he, the hard-hitting Ambrose, would send himself those childish letters and shoot a hole through the window of the two-door. Neither would Weber have reason to suspect that he, Ambrose, had been exposed to a short course in demolitions in the Army a few years back. It would seem quite natural to everyone — including Gloria — that whoever had been threatening his life had placed the bomb in his brief case during his lunch hour or during the afternoon — or had switched brief cases during the time his car had been unlocked and unguarded — and had set the device to go off at the time he usually was driving home from work.

Ambrose felt certain that before this day was over his troubles would be ended. He had taken out life insurance on both Alice and himself shortly after their marriage, and the $25,000 he would collect after her accidental demise would be enough to tide him through the few months he would wait before marrying Gloria. After that — clear sailing.

As he brought the sedan into the driveway beside the house, Alice came out the back door, surprised that he had arrived home at this unaccustomed hour.

“Anything wrong?” she called to him from the porch.

“No. I just came home to pick up the two-door to have the window replaced. I don’t know how long it will take, but if I’m not home by the time you’re ready to go to Plainsville, take the sedan.”

“I don’t have to go,” she said. “If you’d rather I didn’t—”

“You go ahead. And don’t fix dinner for me. I’m swamped with work.” He got into the two-door and drove off.

It was nearly six o’clock when Ambrose, the window in the car replaced, began his leisurely drive homeward, a tight little smile tugging at the comers of his lips. It was only natural that he should take the damaged car to the garage that afternoon and leave the sedan for his wife’s use. It was only natural that, considering his state of confusion concerning the threats on his life, that he should forget to transfer the brief case from the sedan to the two-door or take it into the house. He had very carefully let both Weber and Gloria know how forgetful and nervous he had been lately.

Again he could see no flaw in his plan.

As he pulled into the driveway he noted with satisfaction that the sedan was gone. He consulted his watch. 6:12. In just a few minutes now he would be getting a frantic phone call — probably from Weber himself — informing him of the terrible tragedy.

The telephone was already ringing when he entered the house. He hurried to his desk and picked it up, his hand trembling. Maybe the mechanism had gained a few minutes. Maybe the blast had already gone off! Not that a minute or two, one way or the other, would make any difference.

“Ambrose speaking,” he said, trying to hold his voice level.

“I tried to reach you before I left but I didn’t know which garage you had gone to—”

“Alice! Where… where are you?”

“I’m in a telephone booth. I wanted to let you know, dear—”

Damn! The thing was set to go off any second now! And there she was — away from the car and safe in a telephone booth! Ambrose felt beads of perspiration pop out of his forehead. He had visions of all his plans going sky-high in one big bang!

“—that I cleaned out the sedan this afternoon and found your brief case. And knowing how absent-minded you have been lately and how swamped with work and how you would be needing it, I put the brief case right there beside your desk so you could—”

Ambrose didn’t hear the last part of the sentence.

He did hear the first part of the explo