Enter Without Desire

CHAPTER FIVE

I HAD THE RUNS THAT NIGHT, I WAS SO NERVOUS.

And when I wasn't running, I was sweating. I lay beside Elma, hearing her moan now and then in her sleep, or her leg suddenly kick out—a reflex of nervous terror. And I tried to think how to murder her husband.

“Comic” books and contemporary literature to the contrary, murder is a sickening, insane thought—a reflection of a sick world. The very idea of one human ending the hopes, the desires, the laughter and sadness of another human is the height of stupid conceit. Much as I hated Mac, I didn't want to kill him. Yet I had no choice: it was either him or losing Elma... which would be the same as ending my own life.

But murder frightened me: I'd never been so frightened. I tried to think it out thoroughly.... How does one murder? I was a layman, the rankest of amateurs, and I had to plan the greatest of all crimes—the perfect killing. One thing was for sure—getting caught would be as bad as losing Elma.

My thoughts raced around in a tired circle. Undoubtedly as soon as Mac was killed, the police would get in touch with Elma—as his widow—and I'd be the number-one suspect. The first thing I needed was a good alibi. I thought of all sorts of childish things—like taking a rowboat and saying I was going fishing, beaching it on the shore and going into town and killing him, then returning to the boat and rowing in from the Sound at the end of the day. But I knew that was a lousy alibi—the cops had better trained minds than mine, they could figure that too.

And I knew the more I planned, the more chance I had of tripping myself. What was needed was a simple method of killing. I had one advantage—Mac had never seen me, so I could approach him without warning. But approach him where, when? Would I kill him on the street, strangle him in his sleep...?

I kept turning ideas over in my mind—most of them things I'd read or seen in the movies—till I had a headache and was still no nearer having a plan. With murder there cannot be any failure.

Towards morning the dope Elma took wore off and she began to cry softly, thinking I was asleep. Her crying was like a whip cutting my heart. I put my arms around her gently, tried to calm her. She sobbed, “Marsh, this is all so unfair to you. I wish I could control myself, I know I'm being selfish, but I can't even think of giving up my baby.”

“Darling, first have the baby. If you don't stop worrying you can have a miscarriage and that would be worse than losing the kid to Mac. You must believe that things will turn out right for us. We have to keep riding our luck—like in a crap game. When you're hot, have faith in yourself.”

“But maybe our meeting, our luck, was too good to last.”

“Don't even say that, it's going to last—it has to! Elma, I have a... a hunch... things will work out. But you have to stop all this damn worrying, getting yourself sick.”

“Marsh, I can almost lean on your words. Your strong arm seems like a great wall protecting us,” Elma said, kissing the muscle of my arm.

I flexed the muscle, like a kid showing off. “I'd like to get my arm around Mac for a few seconds! Honey, we'll outwit him. After all, we have two minds against his—a crummy little storekeeper...”

You know how it is—you can think and think for days and never get any place, then one word suddenly sets your mind in order. Soon as I said “storekeeper” a brace of bells went off in my brain, as if I'd hit the jackpot in a pinball machine. All the time I'd been thinking of killing Mac and here.... Outside of a natural death in bed, how do storekeepers die? What's an almost occupational hazard for them?

A hold-up!

“Marsh, I'm such a pest and you're so good and...”

“Get some sleep, honey, and relax,” I said, kissing her, and so wide awake I wanted to spring out of bed.

Elma turned until she was comfortable, began breathing evenly. I stared up at the darkness. A stick-up would be simple... and nobody would connect me with it.

An “unknown thug” enters the store and shoots Mac during a hold-up. I might be able to hire a thug, but that would be risky, and I hadn't the slightest idea how to go about that. No, the thug would have to be me—in disguise. A good disguise so that if he was seen—in fact I wanted “him” to be seen—he would look entirely different from me.

Now I had a plan. First the disguise. It would be impossible to make myself taller, but if I wore a lot of padding, then my shoulders would be lost, I'd merely look like a short, dumpy, clown. I'd dye my hair black with one of these new washable dyes. This was it. I'd make sure Elma took a pill late, then leave here at about four in the morning. She wouldn't come to till noon. I could be over in Newark by eight, shoot Mac as soon as he opened and be back before...

Shoot? Where would I get a gun?

How the hell does one get a gun? Must be a hundred or more places in New York where guns were sold under the counter... you read about kid gangs getting guns... but where? I could stab him, but that would be clumsy and maybe I didn't have the guts to cut a man to death. It would be nothing to buy a rifle... saw off the barrel. I had a dull hacksaw. Tony had a better one that.... I smiled up at the dark ceiling.... Tony's Luger!

I'd steal it, shoot Mac, and put the Luger back. Tony would never miss it. Then a day or so later, I'd borrow it... ask him for it... I wanted to use it as a model or something. Then I'd lose the damn thing, throw it in the ocean. He'd raise hell and I'd say I was sorry, offer him money for a new gun.

I sighed. The gun part was simple.

The big thing was the get-away. I'd have the car parked near the store and after I'd shot Mac, made it look like a robbery, I'd drive away, stop some place to take off my padded suit, wash the dye out of my hair. I'd put a plug in my nose, a wad of cotton, to distort my face, place a wart on my face with make-up. I had to be seen... so the cops would be hunting for a fat, dark-haired man with a wide nose and a wart on his face.

This was it, all right. There were plenty of holes in my scheme. Suppose Tony knew the gun was missing? What if Alice came over in the morning, to see about Elma, knew I wasn't home? What if I couldn't make a quick get-away, had to shoot it out with a cop? What if somebody saw me get into the car, remembered my license plates? Jesus, maybe Mac had a clerk working with him? Maybe Mac had a gun, and shot me!

I couldn't find the answers to these questions. A perfect crime depends upon a great deal of luck... and luck would either be with me or against me. I'd have to push my luck to the limit, hope it held.

When night slowly changed to dawn, I was in the bathroom, still thinking like mad. I had a few answers. I'd buy a can of this house paint that has a water base, paint one fender to make the car noticeable, then wash it off before I came back to New York. Maybe I could steal some New Jersey license plates? No, that would be too much risk... I'd muddy up my own.

I dressed and had some coffee. Elma was still sleeping. At nine I went over to the Alvins. Alice was in the kitchen, a robe over her nightgown. She told me, “You look like you tied one on, Marsh.”

“Didn't sleep. Elma had a rough night. Look, I have to go into town. Could you stay with her this morning?”

“Of course. Do my writing at your place. I've rewritten this one chapter three times now. Gee, Elma is certainly having a time. I don't understand it, always seemed so calm and healthy and then...”

“Doc says some women have it rough with the first one. And I forgot to give her a pill last night. Tonight I'll be sure to give her one, so don't come over tomorrow morning.” And my heart beat faster at the casual way I'd decided it would be tomorrow! Within twenty-four hours I would take a man's life.

I went back and changed from my sweat shirt and dungarees to a suit and shirt and tie. Alice came over about an hour later and Elma was still sleeping. I told her to tell Elma I had to see my agent, would be back before supper.

I drove off, then quickly circled back to their house. Nobody locked their doors in Sandyhook. I found the Luger hidden in a drawer and a full clip of bullets. That was another chance I had to take. Tony mustn't notice there was an empty shell or more, in the clip... if he should look at the gun. I'd stripped a .45 during army basic and I prayed I could do the same with a Luger, get the cordite stink out of it.

As I drove to New York I had another nightmare. What if I got a flat in New Jersey, had motor trouble? Only insurance against that would be to have Len check the car.

Now and then I felt of the Luger in my pocket. The very feel of the gun gave me a kind of stupid confidence. The fact that I had death in my pocket gave me a feeling of strength, of power. It didn't make sense—I had a gun in a world full of guns, yet I almost felt as though mine was the only one.

I drove directly over to Newark, found Mac's shop. It was a small store, off the main street. I walked by several times—slowly—and looking through the window, I saw only this big fat slob behind the counter, recognized Mac from Elma's description. Getting in the car, I cruised around till I found several places—none of them far from the store—where I could park. Then I practiced driving to the highway, back to the Lincoln Tunnel, to make sure I knew the route by heart. I kept thinking that some little dumb mistake would throw me.

A couple weeks before, there was an account in the papers of some characters who had gone in for gold smuggling. There was a lot of money involved and they'd worked out plans, here and abroad. They were caught when they parked in a No-Parking street in midtown Manhattan, to split up the dough. A cop came over to see why they were parked... and that was that. Overlooking a lousy little thing like a No-Parking sign.

Coming out of the Tunnel at 34th Street, I stopped at Macy's and bought one of those hair dyes that are a part of a comb. I also purchased a small can of blue house paint.

Driving over to the Bowery, I bought a second-hand suit, size 48, stout and short, got a ragged padded quilt at another second-hand store. The suit was a blue pin stripe, just loud enough—and worn enough. Passing a tool store, I got a real bright idea—purchased one of these baling hooks longshoremen use. I stopped at a drugstore in Times Square, said I was from a little theatre group and bought a make-up kit, including a large, ready-made wart with two crazy black hairs sticking in it. I threw the rest of the kit into several garbage cans, walking back to my parked car.

On the way back to Sandyhook, I stopped at Len's garage, had the car gassed and oiled, told Len the motor was missing, and he spent an hour checking it while I had lunch. I had confidence in him, he was one of these slow, but careful, mechanics... kind that handles a car like he was in love with it.

It was almost four when I returned. Alice and Elma were talking in the bedroom. I gave them some cock-and-bull story about missing my agent,—waiting for him... something about an exhibit I'd read about in Dayton, where they have a ritzy art center.

Elma seemed rested and when Alice finally left, I gave Elma the papers to read and went to my porch studio. I cut up the quilt and roughly sewed it inside the coat and pants of the suit. I roughed up the coat—not that it needed much—and when I wore it over my own suit, it felt like a straitjacket, but I looked like mister five-by-five. I tried combing some of the dye into my hair, put the wart on, stuffed cotton up my nose, added some shadows under my eyes—and as a final touch stuck the steel freight hook in my belt. I put on an old cap, examined myself very carefully in the mirror.

I looked like a little tough guy on my uppers. I put another wad of cotton inside my left cheek—and that completely changed the contour of my face. I took out one of my worst shirts and a faded, loud tie, made sure to remove any laundry marks. Then I undressed and practiced stuffing the suit into two large shopping bags. Next I filled a gallon can with water. In two minutes I'd washed the dye out of my hair—had it back to my own sandy-blonde shade. I tried out the blue paint on a piece of metal—that washed off easily. I ran through the washing routine again—in two minutes flat.

I was set.

Dry my hair with my shirt, then use the shirt to wipe the paint off the car, wipe my license plates. After I'd tossed the can away, got rid of the bags with my clothes, I'd merely be another guy in an old Chevy—and no reason why I should be stopped.

But where would I dispose of the clothes? I couldn't keep them in the car—just in case I was stopped. I could burn them, but that would certainly attract attention.

Skipping over the clothing for a moment, I went to work on the Luger. Couldn't take a chance on firing an experimental shot, but I took it apart and put it together again— positive I knew how to work the deadly beauty. I washed an old pair of kid gloves, washed them carefully to get rid of any particles of clay, hung them up to dry. That would take care of fingerprints.

I put everything in a corner of the studio, even filled the can with water, so I'd be ready in the morning. I fixed supper for Elma and we sat and listened to records and all the time I was racking my brains, trying to think what the hell to do with the damn clothes.

I gave up—decided I'd chuck them into corner waste-baskets, once back in Manhattan. It was a weak spot in my plans, but I couldn't think of anything else to do... even though I kept thinking of those gold smugglers stopping in a No-Parking street. Be my luck to drop in the bags and get picked up for littering the streets!

Elma seemed in good spirits and we even played some gin. I put her in bed at ten, then dropped over to see the Alvins. Tony didn't say a thing about the gun being missing. I told them Elma was very tired and I'd just given her a pill, not to disturb us in the morning. Alice said she had some typing to do and a lot of house work, but would drop over in the afternoon.

When I returned, Elma was listening to the radio. I sat in a chair and fell asleep—to my surprise. I suppose I was so nervous I was emotionally exhausted. I awoke to hear Elma calling, “Marsh, it's midnight. Come to bed. I must have kept you up all last night.”

When I got into bed, Elma dozed off and I lay there, afraid to fall asleep. Suppose I overslept? But I was too tightly wound up to sleep anyway. At four o'clock I got her pill, some water, gently shook Elma awake. “Honey, you forgot your pill.”

“What time is it?”

“Little after one. Now...”

“That all? Feel like I've slept for hours.”

“Now take your pill and go back to sleep.”

She took the pill, asked for the bedpan, and by 4:30 she was sleeping soundly. I dressed quickly, took a slug of whisky, then carried my stuff out to the car. The village was still asleep and I didn't see a soul as I drove off.

It was a dreary, dull-cold morning, the right atmosphere for killing, I guess, but it didn't help my nerves any. I'd put the gas pedal down, then reminded myself that all I needed was to be picked up for speeding, took it slow for a few miles. I came over the 59th Street Bridge at five to six, stopped for a cup of coffee. The crummy restaurant was full of sleepy-eyed men on their way to or from work. How I wished I was one of them, and not on my way to murder!

The coffee did what the whisky failed to do, steadied me. I had a second cup and a doughnut and felt okay. As I paid the toll and drove through the Tunnel, I wondered if I should tell Mac who I was before I plugged him? Gave me a hell of a satisfaction, but if by some chance he didn't die at once—he'd tell the cops.

One thing I'd overlooked—where to shoot him. The stomach was the largest target—I might miss his head, even at short range.

In New Jersey I drove off the highway at a spot I'd picked out the day before, parked in a wooded area. Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I quickly painted one of the fenders, made some mud and dirtied my license plates. I dressed in the padded suit, put on the shirt and tie, dyed my hair, and slapped the mole on my cheek. I hung the hook from my belt, put on my cap when my hair was dry. I stuffed cotton up my right nostril, stuck a wad in the right side of my face. My mouth felt full of cotton.

Double-checking my appearance, I drove toward Newark.

I reached the store by eight and of course it was shut. I'd made my first mistake—had a half hour to wait; I felt certain I had screwed myself up. I suddenly got the jitters, told myself the smart thing would be to go home, try again tomorrow....

But I was on top of the killing now, and tomorrow might be too late. I drove around and when I came past the store again it was 8:30 and the damn place was still shut. But some of the other stores were open.

I parked the car and waited—praying I didn't get the runs now.

At a quarter to nine I got out and strolled past the store. He'd just opened, was standing behind the counter, his hat and coat still on, reading the mail.

A few people were on the street. I didn't see any cops.

I waited, my knees doing a little dance. I waited and waited... then I boldly walked in, walking like a man on his way to the chair; wanting to get things over.

Mac gave me a practiced smile as he said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

He ran his eyes over my cheap clothes and his expression said I wasn't going to be much of a customer, even to break the ice for the day.

“You got lockets?” I heard my voice as if speaking from another world. I was talking with what I thought was an Italian accent. I don't know why I chose to be an Italian... put it on them.

“Yes, sir, a store full. About how much do you plan to spend?”

I was standing directly in front of him as I yanked out the Luger, my body hiding the gun from anybody in the street. “This is a stick-up!” I said hoarsely. “Keep your mitts on the counter—not up in the air! Keep still and you won't get hurt!”

“Of course,” he said, biting off the words, his whole face ashen. “A-all the money I-I have is in the cash register. Please don't h-hurt me.”

“Move over—with me—to the register.”

We both sidestepped toward the .cash register, moving like an awkward dance team. I motioned with the gun, “Open it!”

He pressed the button and the drawer shot open, making me jump. I took up a handful of bills with my left hand, asked for his wallet. I stuffed the money and wallet into my left pocket.

There was a tray of costume jewelry on the counter, I scooped that up, put the junk in my pockets. I told him, “Mister, don't call nobody for ten minutes. You hear, mister?”

“Y-yes.”

He was less than two feet from me and I had the Luger pointed at his heart. My own heart was beating like a hammer as I pulled the trigger....

... A tiny tear, a slit that became a hole, appeared in his coat. That was all.

Shocked surprise swept his face as he staggered a step backwards, eyes wide with disbelief... then he slowly and quietly slipped under the counter.

For a second the shop was still, then it seemed to be ringing with the thunder of the shot, the sound smothering me. Jamming the gun in my pocket, I walked out—forcing myself not to run.

The street looked normal. Two men were standing in the doorway of a haberdashery, three stores away, chewing the fat. They glanced at me as I passed, but that was all. There wasn't any sound of the gun on the street. I kept my hands out of my pockets, away from the security-feeling of the gun, as I turned the corner, got into my car and drove—smack into a red light!

The tension was terrible. I wanted to scream, yell my lungs out... having to sit in the car not thirty feet from his store. I looked about with a trapped feeling, noticed a parcel-post truck parked on the opposite side of the street. If they had a package for Mac... they'd find the body in a few minutes... maybe a few seconds... with the damn red light on, me sitting there, waiting for...

When the welcome green came on I drove away, forcing myself to drive at twenty per. I spat the cotton wad out of my mouth, took the plug from my nose, the wart off my cheek.

Glancing at the steering wheel I almost fainted—I didn't have any glove on my right hand!

Frantically I dug into my pockets for the other glove. It wasn't... then I saw it on the seat beside me. That was a relief... if I'd dropped it in the store.... But damn, I must have forgotten to put it on! They'd find fingerprints... store'd be lousy with prints! I tried to convince myself I hadn't touched anything with my right hand—only had used my gloved left... But had I?

I reached the highway, expecting to hear sirens following me any second, my brain in agony as I tried to recall every movement I'd made in the store. Did I push the door open with my right hand? Leave prints that could be easily checked with my army record? No, the door had been open... I think it was open... I'm almost sure it was open.

How about the counter... did I put my right hand on that? That goddamned ungloved right hand!... Maybe, but I had the right hand around the gun.... Yeah, I had my right hand in my pocket, all the time, holding the gun. No need to worry, my right hand was... But was it?... Oh Christ, had I left any prints...?

Turning off the road, I drove into the wooded area again and shut off the motor. I was sweating like a pig, with my padded suit on. For a second I studied the trees, the bushes, then quickly undressed, stuffed the clothes into two paper bags. The costume jewelry fell out of the pockets and I tossed that into the grass. I had taken thirty-three dollars from his cash register, and there was another fifteen bucks in his wallet. I shoved the money and wallet in my back pocket, put the gun and the freight hook under the car seat. I washed my hair, soaping it good. The dye came right off and I dried it with my shirt, then went to work on the car. It took more time than I expected to wash the paint off the fender. I should have had more water, but I finally got the blue off.

Driving toward the tunnel, I threw the water can away, tried to keep my thoughts clear, my mind sharp... and all I could think about was those lousy fingerprints I might have left.

A motorcycle cop passed me and I nearly blacked out. But he didn't stop and at exactly 9:32 I came out of the tunnel and headed cross-town for the 59th Street Bridge. Stopping for a red light, I got out and shoved one of the bags with my clothes under the other paper bags of garbage in a corner wire basket.

Going up Second Avenue, I passed a garbage truck, asked if it was okay to throw in some junk and one of the men said sure and it was a relief to see the bag disappear under the metal scoop, as though the truck had digested it.

I was beginning to breathe easy once more, although the idea of fingerprints kept hammering at my brain. When I stopped for a light at the entrance to the bridge, a beefy traffic cop jerked his finger at me and I nearly screamed. He took a few steps toward me, said, “Hey, wash up them plates, next chance you get, bud.”

I said yes sir and drove on, and when I got across the bridge I took out a handkerchief and dampened it with my sweat and cleaned the license plates. When I hit the parkway, I put the gas pedal down. I went past Sandyhook, cut across to the ocean—stopped for a moment to throw the baling hook into the waves—then came back toward the house, avoiding the village. It seemed to me I didn't pass anyone. It was 11:00 and most people would be at work, or still in the house.

Taking the gun, I went into our place, walking softly. Everything was quiet, Elma was still asleep. I quickly stripped, hid the gun and the wallet in my studio, climbed into bed. To my surprise, I fell into a sound sleep at once, as if I'd suddenly let myself fall off into space.

I had a nightmare.

I was back in the store, only this time everything went wrong. I saw the entire scene through a sort of web, which seemed to glow with a red neon brilliance. Then Mac was laughing at me like an idiot, suddenly yanked out a gun and poured bullets into me. The slugs didn't seem to hurt. An electric alarm shrilled through the store and as I turned to run, I found myself in the arms of a giant cop, who held me fast while Mac ripped off the mole, the padded clothing, and kept roaring with laughter. Then he pointed to the neon web and I suddenly knew what that was—a huge fingerprint. The cop began beating me over the head with his billy...

I awoke with a start: sweating badly. Elma was moaning. When I asked how she felt she said, “Very nauseous.”

“Now take it easy. Want the doctor?”

She nodded.

It was one in the afternoon: my alibi was perfect. As I dressed I suggested maybe she was just hungry, but the very mention of food made her pale. I called the doc, helped Elma with the bedpan, then went over to see if Alice was around—she seemed to have a soothing effect on Elma.

She was standing in the doorway as I came up the path. I had the gun hidden behind my back. She stared at me curiously as I came up to her.

“Lousy mosquitoes kept biting me all night,” I said, scratching myself, keeping the gun out of sight. Her face broke into a smile, “Same trouble myself, Marsh. How's Elma?”

“Not so hot. Why don't you run over for a while?” She said sure and as soon as she went over to the house, I cleaned the Luger with an improvised ramrod and patch and lighter fluid, slipped it back in Tony's drawer.

The murder seemed like something that had happened ages ago. Even the fingerprints didn't worry me; somehow I was certain I had my right hand on the gun all the time.

Back in the house, Alice was giving Elma the latest village gossip. I tried to eat but vomited. A slug of whisky stayed down, warmed my guts.

The doctor spent a long time with Elma. Alice and I sat in the kitchen and Alice said, “I'm worried, she really looks sick today.”

“Damn, she starts throwing up... that will be it.”

“The chemistry of the body is certainly an odd thing. We...”

The doc came into the kitchen, his wrinkled face worried. He said, “I gave her an injection of vitamins. Can't understand what she's worrying about. Doesn't seem afraid of birth...”

“She's worse?”

“Hard to say. Jameson, you and your wife aren't fighting over anything, are you? Even a very minor incident can upset a woman in her condition. You really want the child, don't you?”

“You don't know how much I want it!” I said, and my voice damn near broke at the thought of how much I wanted Elma to have her baby.... I'd murdered for Elma and the baby!

“Well, nothing more I can do. She must have peace of mind. And you take it easy, too. Sound a little hysterical.”

Elma seemed to grow weaker, more listless as the day wore on. It was a muggy, dreary day, and she was uncomfortable. I washed her down, changed the linen several times to cool her off. Alice and I spent every second with her, playing her favorite records, reading to her, discussing Alice's book... but Elma just lay there as though she no longer cared to live.

When the New York evening papers came on the late train, I read each line, but there wasn't any mention of the killing. It would certainly be in the Newark papers, but I couldn't get them....

Then it hit me—the stupid irony of the whole mess! The crazy joker in the deck that was our life! There wasn't any way I could tell Elma Mac was dead, without exposing myself!

Suppose she worried herself into a miscarriage, even death, before she found out about Mac? I would have become a murderer for no reason, then! It was pretty awful, sitting beside Elma, watching her suffer, and not being able to tell her the reasons for her being sick no longer existed... the baby was all hers, all ours. Yet I had to sit and watch and keep still. The doc said not to give her any more dope that day and her soft, pitiful cries drove me crazy.

I tried to tell her, beg her, to get control of herself. But she would only sob, “You're right, Marsh. It's so unfair to you... my wonderful Marsh. I am trying... really I am, but... but...” and her voice would fall off to a sob again.

The doc called and said he would stop in before he went to bed, so I knew Elma must be real sick. Alice and Tony dropped in after supper, asked me if I'd eaten. I lied that I had. I was half high, what with nibbling at the bottle all day. I went out to buy another fifth and it was a hard shock to realize that I was paying for it with his money.

There wasn't much in his wallet—a driver's license, membership card in a local merchants' association, a Legion card, a memo to pay some bills by the tenth, a couple of blank checks. I went out to the homemade incinerator back of the house, where we burned most of the garbage, spilled a can of lighter fluid over the wallet, carefully burned it.

Alice and Tony left. Elma was staring at the ceiling, without seeing anything. I sat beside her bed like a mourner. A disk jockey was knocking himself out on the radio. It was nearly nine. I'd either have to chance telling Elma— and that would probably kill her—or drive into New York in the morning and get a copy of the Newark papers... if Elma survived the night. And that would look phony, I'd never bought the Newark papers before. But I sure had to do something—murder wasn't enough, it seemed.

I lit my pipe, asked if the smoke bothered her.

“No.”

“This is your favorite brand—real aromatic.**

“Is it? I don't smell it.”

“How about a game of gin?”

“No, dear.”

“Shall I read to you?”

“No.”

The record jockey read a commercial and as the nine o'clock news came on, I tuned in another station for more music. A brittle-voice commentator said, “Now for another crime-doesn't-pay bulletin taken from real life. Today, a Newark businessman, Maxwell Morse, was shot to death in a hold-up. The unknown gunman took a life for fifty dollars in cash and a handful of jewelry....”

I tuned it up loud, asked, “Elma, did you hear...?”

She was sitting up in bed, one hand motioning for me to keep still. Her face seemed to be listening with every pore—a pose I'd love to sketch, put in clay.

“... Later in the afternoon, some children found the cheap jewelry off the main road, where the thug had evidently thrown it away. So a human life was snubbed out for a few dollars and a handful of cheap trinkets, worth less than ten dollars. What price death! And now a news item from Denver tells us of a freak accident in which...”

I cut the radio off. Elma fell back against the pillow, began to cry once more.

I stroked her hair, wanted to shake her. “Elma honey, may sound hard to say this but... well... our troubles are over! The baby is ours, we can be married tomorrow... you're a widow!”

“What a way for poor Mac to die... always hated that store and now...”

“Damn it, the hell with poor Mac! He didn't give a fat damn if you went through hell, worried yourself and the kid into a... Poor Mac, my ass!”

Elma held out her arms and I kissed her wet face as she bawled, “Marsh, don't talk like that. He was such a weakling, and the .world so strong. He never had any of the happiness we've known, and now he's dead and...”

“Baby, don't cry. You heard what the doctor said. You're shaking with sobs.”

“I'm okay, Marsh. Really I am. This is different... I only feel sorry for him, the way he lost out in life.”

And as I held her I realized the difference in her crying. Now it was the sort of abstract tears a person gives out when they see a sad picture, or a puppy run over. I held Elma gently and knew everything was going to work out. I began to cry too... because I was still damn scared.

Elma asked, “Should I call up his mother?”

“Why?”

“She must be sick and...”

“I wouldn't call her now. As you say, she's probably too sick and upset to talk.” And as I listened to my own words, the casual, offhand sound of them, I was surprised at my hardness. For as soon as Elma called his mother, it might be the start of a link between me and the case... the police.

Elma slept soundly that night—without pills. The doc dropped in and we were both in bed. He looked at Elma, said it was a “good sleep.”

I had the same nightmare, only with a corny touch this time. I was running out of the store and a motorcycle cop was chasing me, Mac sitting behind the driver and pointing to me and laughing as he yelled, “Killer I Killer!” Then I ran into a huge spider web and got hung up on it. The web turned out to be my fingerprint and Mac's pointing finger became a gun barrel and flame spurted from the finger nail and I felt the hot lead tearing through me with horrible pain and I awoke with a short scream, my pillow sweat-wet.

In the morning Elma ate a large breakfast and I managed to keep coffee and toast down—although even that gave me the runs. She decided to call her mother-in-law. I tried to stall her, but there wasn't any way I could talk Elma out of it. She had a long talk with the old woman, who was hysterical most of the time. I held my face next to Elma's, listened in.

The old woman said, “Elma, we've lost him. God has taken all I had in life. Maybe I was wrong in wanting him so much, in trying to run his life and yours. Elma, do you forgive me?”

“Of course.”

“The funeral will be... tomorrow. Oh God, they're burying my son tomorrow, tomorrow!” When she finally checked her sobbing, she said, “In the prime of his life, he had to die. I keep asking myself only one question: Why? Why did this happen to me and mine? He was right, always hated the stores... they fed and clothed him, and they killed him. Elma, you must be at the funeral. I have so few friends, and I know so few of his...”

I shook my head. The thought of me driving Elma back to the scene of the crime, to the cemetery, gave my guts a chill. The old lady's babbling didn't upset me... she probably had talked as passionately in convincing Mac he had to take the baby.

Elma said, “I'm not feeling too well. And I'm quite a long ways from Newark. I can't travel. You see, I expect to have the baby in a few...”

“Ah, the baby! My God, are You punishing me for what I did to Elma? Elma....”

“Yes?”

“Do you have it in your heart to forgive an old jealous mother? Oh my daughter, no one has the right to take a child from its mother—how I know that now! How I think of...”

The old woman rattled on and I gave up listening. As I lit my pipe I thought it was lucky she wasn't going to try to take the baby. Her case wouldn't be as strong as Mac's, but it would still be a nasty mess if she tried... and mean I'd knocked off Mac for... nothing.

Elma talked to her for almost an hour, soothing her. It seemed to be a tonic for Elma too. When the doc came and spent some time with her, he gave me the eye to walk him to the door, told me, “Well, Jameson, your wife is very much better. I think she's snapped out of it. Young women of today, they read too much. In the old days they didn't know about childbirth, couldn't worry too much. You know the saying: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Now, a woman reads a couple of these pseudo-medical books or articles, and scares herself half to death. Glad she's over whatever was worrying her. She'll be all right, and shouldn't have any trouble during the birth— she's built right.”

The doc was correct—within two days Elma was out of bed and pretty gay. She still called the old lady every day, to comfort her, and the old woman suddenly seemed to love Elma like a daughter... all of which I took with a grain of salt.

I drove to New York and bought all the Newark papers, including back issues to the day of the killing. It looked good. The police admitted they didn't have the slightest idea as to the identity of the killer, and in one story they even said that fingerprints weren't found... which made me feel better, but I knew that might just be newspaper talk. Two other storekeepers said they remembered “a swarthy little fat man leave the shop at about the time of the murder.” One of them even recalled the freight hook and the other said, “he looked like a tough little thug.” The papers said the police were searching the Jersey docks for the man.

Driving back to Sandyhook, I had a bad minute wondering what I'd do if they picked up some jerk and framed him... but I gave up thinking about that.

When I suggested to Elma that we could now be legally married, she roared with laughter—for the first time in months—asked, “With me all swollen as though I'd swallowed a watermelon? Marsh, the minister wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. Be too much like one of those old jokes.”

“Would you be embarrassed?”

“A little. Why can't we wait till the baby comes?”

“We can. Thought it might make things simpler. But you're right, no one will know the difference if we're married later. Just have to give the hospital a small white lie about us being legal now.”

The next few weeks were wonderful—or nearly wonderful. Elma was again the picture of health and happiness. We had long and silly arguments over what to name the baby if he was a boy, or if he turned out a she.

I still had my usual nightmares, and nervous stomach. Couldn't sleep without taking a stiff hooker of whisky before I hit the sack. I managed to get into New York every couple of days, followed the Newark papers. Whoever said there's nothing as old as yesterday's headlines wasn't kidding—the case was forgotten. Even his mother told Elma—over the phone—that the police had given it up as hopeless, couldn't find the killer... me. The old lady was mad as a hornet at the cops, claimed they weren't trying.

Exactly seven weeks and three days after I'd shot Mac, Elma gave birth to a six-pound girl, whom we named Joan. It was a week sooner than the doc expected, but the kid was healthy and hungry. This may sound crazy, or maybe all new babies look alike, but the kid looked like me! She had Elma's wide mouth, but what little hair she had was sandy-blonde, and she had my pug nose, the same wide bone structure around the eyes. Elma and I roared with laughter over the resemblance. When we came home from the hospital we found an unexpected gift for the baby—a letter from a Newark attorney.

He was handling Mac's “estate” and as his legal wife Elma would get a $10,000 G.I. policy Mac had evidently never got around to changing over to his mama. There was also an accident policy for $5,000 which mama, as head of the corporation running the stores, had taken on Mac. There was a personal checking account of $700, and an apartment full of furniture and a second-hand car.

Elma and I had a long talk as to whether she should accept the dough. Our radio prize money was down to less than $400 and we could use the cash. But Elma felt squeamish about taking the money, since she knew Mac never meant for her to have it. But if she didn't take it, it would go to mama, and mama was already well fixed. We finally decided to take it and put at least five grand in the bank for Joan.

Several things started moving for us. I saw Sid in town and he had an idea for plastic molds—an easier and cheaper way of replacing plaster casts and, more important, a method of getting work down to fit everybody's pocketbook. I had lunch with him on my way to see my agent, and Sid was excited about this plastic deal and I agreed to advance $500 as a one-third partner in the deal.

The agent had terrific news—my bronze had been sold to a private collection in the midwest for $900. Strangely enough, my first sale made me sad. Somehow it didn't seem right that my efforts should now belong to this rich man who had no talent, except for making money. However, it really was a big break—his collection was always on exhibit at some museum or other, old moneybags getting his kicks out of being known as a patron, busting his buttons with pride over the words... “From the private collection of Mr. Joe Blow....”

The agent wanted to know what I was working on. Although I'd made several sketches of Elma nursing Joan— and gave them up as being too trite—I wasn't working at all. I was still too damn nervous and worried to work. Along with my nightmares, there was still one very real piece of business that tied me to the killing.

The day Elma took Joan over to Newark to see the lawyer and let Mac's mother have a look at her granddaughter, I dropped in on Alice, asked, “Can I borrow Tony's pistol? Sketching an idea I have... figure to be called THE THUG, like to use the gun as a model.”

“That's an odd composition.”

“I know, but crime is a part of American life and never put in clay, as yet,” I said.

“Let me see, where did he put the gun?” Alice said, looking through several drawers. “Haven't seen that horrible thing for months.”

I watched Alice hunting for the gun, careful not to tell her exactly where it was. Alice finally found it in a drawer full of bathing suits.

Back in my studio I examined the clip—there was still one bullet missing. Evidently Tony hadn't looked at the gun, or noticed the missing shell. I quickly made a few rough sketches on paper, all corny as hell, even a rough in clay of a gangster, with the gun as a background... then got in my car and drove toward the ocean.

The ocean was rough, the waves exploding against the shore, and I had this sudden hunch the damn gun might be washed ashore. About twenty miles past Sandyhook, going out toward Riverhead, there's a small, deep lake that's used as a reservoir. After making certain I was alone, I threw the gun as far as I could and when it vanished into the smooth water, a great feeling of relief swept over me, as though the water that hid the Luger had also washed the last signs of murder off me.

When Elma came home she said, “In a few days I'll get a certified check for $15,000. I signed a waiver to any claim on the shops, car, and furniture. Mama Morse was rather sweet to me, and of course simply crazy about the baby. However, I made it very clear to her, without sounding harsh, that I thought it best she didn't see Joan again. Also told her about you—not by name—but that we expected to be married shortly.”

“How did she take that?”

“In stride. The poor woman has aged badly. Blames herself for what happened to Mac, because she insisted he take over one of the stores.”

“Have they... eh... found anything more about the killer?” I asked, my voice almost calm.

“She was very bitter about the police. Claims they've given up the case. I talked to the lawyer about it, and he told me the cops have talked to local stoolies and are convinced it was the work of an out-of-town stick-up man.”

“Might have been some punk just passing through. No fingerprints, or any clues?”

Elma shook her head. “Not a thing. Cops told Mama Morse that in time the killer will be caught in some other robbery, confess this one.”

“Yeah, guess the police know their business,” I said. If they were waiting for me to commit another stick-up and killing, we'd both die of old age first!

“That's what I tried to tell Mrs. Morse, but all she talks about is avenging Mac, how nothing is being done, and God is punishing her... all that.”

“But with it all, she drove a bargain—made sure you didn't get all of Mac's estate.”

“That's not nice to say—half the stuff I didn't want. Merely took the two policies, made her a sort of... well, gift with the small stuff in his account. Listen to me talk— nearly a grand and it's small stuff!”

“You talk like a wealthy widow,” I said, kidding her.

Elma yawned. “And a tired one, too. First time I've been back in New York in months. Felt good, but better to be here.”

“I had a real bright day,” I said. “Borrowed Tony's pistol, as a model for some sketches. Seemed so nice out, I decided to go hunting for rabbits. I...”

“Hunting?”

“Yes, one of those crazy urges. Never got to shooting any—lost the gun in the woods some place. Hope Tony won't be sore. I'll tell him to buy a new one and send me the bill.”

But when I told Tony he blew his top. I thought he was angry because the gun was a war souvenir, but he said, “Damn it, Marsh, you could have got yourself a year in the can for carrying a gun without a permit, and in a way I'd be at fault.”

“I was merely horsing around and it must have dropped out of my pocket.”

“Guns aren't made to horse with,” Tony snapped. “Come on, let's look around where you were walking. Some kid will find the rod and I'll never forgive myself.”

Tony and I “searched” the woods that afternoon, the next, and most of Saturday. I kept telling him it was probably hidden in the mud and Spring weeds, would never be found, and when I took him into Riverhead and paid for a fancy target pistol he wanted, Tony calmed down.

The night of the afternoon I threw the Luger in the lake, I didn't have any nightmares, slept smoothly. I felt so good in the morning, I started working again—touching up a head I'd done of Elma months ago. Elma always called me to watch her feed the baby, and as I watched her this time... I got an idea: a shell of a baby's head suckling a breast... but just the nose, and part of the face, and only a part of the breast... mainly the lips clinging greedily to the nipple.

I spent the afternoon sketching on paper and liked the idea. Elma thought it was good and I tried to figure out an armature that would support the tricky figure.

I worked hard on the figure, studying Elma feeding the baby, knowing I had to get it exactly right or it wouldn't be anything, had to really capture the spirit of feeding... if there is such a thing.

Two weeks later Elma got a registered letter with a $15,000 check attached and she deposited it in our joint checking account. When I said something about taxes, she grinned at me, said, “You know us, the tax-free kids. Mama's lawyer took care of that. Seems legally I could ask for a share of the stores, so we agreed that for my not being a pig, they would take care of any taxes, and his fee. So I took the deal. There was...”

“Look, when will...?”

“... About a thousand bucks in odds and ends that I gave to Mama for a...”

“Skip the details. When will you stop nursing Joan?”

“Aren't you interested in what I did for Mama?”

“Let's cut the I-remember-mama routine,” I said almost curtly. “Forget that witch. What about you and Joan?”

“She's over a month old, I can stop any time. Why?”

“Thought it might be an idea for us to hire a nurse for a few days, fly down to Maryland, make us both an honest married couple. We could have a second honeymoon—one all tied up in legal ribbons this time.”

That wonderful wide mouth gave me a big grin and a bigger kiss as Elma whispered, “Marsh, I do want that, want it so much, darling.”

I tried to nibble at her tongue, said, in my usual corn-ball manner, “You know of course I'm only marrying you for your money.”

“Why of course, sir, you're such an arch villain, you probably killed my husband, you hammy dastard,” Elma said, laughing.

“Yeah, that's me, the villain,” I said, holding on to her tightly, my voice sounding hollow as fright replaced all desire within me.