Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

The Questionable Cure by Lorraine Marise

David had to keep Marla from talking or he would lose his psychiatrist’s licence — and murder was his only out!

He worked the credit card between the door and the door jamb and thanked his lucky stars she hadn’t changed the worthless lock, as he had suggested. He turned the knob and the door slid open an inch. He squinted his eyes and peered through the crack.

The entry was dark. The living room was dark. There was a glimmer of light coming from the direction of the kitchen, but it was so faint he knew it could only be coming from the tiny bulb on the stove, which Marla used as a highlight.

He slipped the credit card back into his pocket and, with two gloved hands, pushed the door open, just wide enough for him to slide through. With one hand on the inside knob and one on the wood above it, he eased the door closed.

Click.

Oh, God, she heard! She heard me coming, his mind cried. He stood silently, motionlessly, his skin prickling with fear. A strange feeling rushed over him. It was the first time he had ever had this feeling, but he recognized it immediately as one his patients had so often described.

Suddenly, everything seemed exaggerated, out of proportion. The dim little bulb in the kitchen seemed to flood the entry with brilliance. His heart was pounding so loudly, it was setting off explosions in his ears. His breath was gusting in and out with the whooosh of a tornado.

The garrote in his back pocket bulged out grotesquely from his hip, like a third leg. Fragmented thoughts pierced his mind like daggers. Marla can hear me. She knows. She knows I’m here to kill her. Bang! Whooosh! Bang!

He shook his head to exorcise the feeling. Get hold of yourself, he thought. She cannot hear your breath, your heartbeat. She does not know. You are becoming as psychotic as your patients. Settle down. It will all be over soon.

He breathed in and out slowly, deliberately, until the explosions were only dull thuds beneath his suit coat. If there were another way, I would take it, he told himself. But there is not. Marla has given me no choice. I must kill her tonight.

He took two silent steps to the wrought iron divider at the right, which separated the entry from the living room.

Wait! I hear voices, his mind screamed. She has someone here to protect her. She knows! He held his breath and listened. Oh, thank God! It’s the television. Marla is watching television.

He pulled himself up to the divider and pressed his face against the cold latticework. He rolled his left cheek to the metal to scan the far right wall of the living room. Through the darkness, he could see the open doorway there, as a rainbow of light danced on the wall of the hallway. Yes. The voices were from the television set in the den at the end of the hallway, he assured himself. He put his weight back onto his heels, pulling his face from the divider.

If only she hadn’t threatened to turn me in to the authorities tomorrow. I abhor violence. I am not a killer, but she is making me kill. If I don’t, she will tell... who? The State Board of Psychiatrists? The American Medical Association? The police?

She will tell them I forced her into an affair on the guise of it being therapy for her problem. And they will believe her! How better could I dispel her fear that she was turning homosexual, than to show her she could still enjoy a relationship with a man. Oh, they will believe her, even thought it is not true — not true...

Our affair did not begin until after her third session, after I had already evoked her cure. But they will believe her, and they will take away my license, my livelihood. I cannot let that happen.

Silently, he crept around the divider and tiptoed into the living room. The sounds from the television set in the den grew more distinct, as he moved closer to the hall doorway. Near the center of the room, he crouched low to feel his way past the coffee table he knew was there. He heard the sounds of applause from the television and reflected that he himself deserved this praise for his stealthiness.

He straightened up, after he passed the table, took another step.

Squeak!

Oh no! he thought! She heard the floorboard! She heard me coming! He stood frozen a long moment. She must not have heard me over the television, he decided.

He looked down franticly at the shag carpeting. Where can I step, he wondered. How can I tell where the floorboards will creak under my weight?

He waited until he heard the clapping sounds again, then placed one toe gingerly in front of him. Gradually, he eased his weight onto it and extended the other foot. No squeak. One more step. Laughter from the television rang loudly in his ears. One more step.

Now he was at the hall doorway, clinging to the wooden frame as if he were balancing on the ledge of a skyscraper. He breathed in and out slowly, consciously, trying to regulate his irratic pulse.

Why is she trying to ruin my life this way, he asked himself. Hasn’t she done enough damage to me already? I cannot even face my wife any more, without guilt lashing at me. I am sure that Helene knows about my affair with Marla. I am sure of it. Marla said she would tell her and I am sure she did.

What a meeting that must have been! he mused. Where did they meet? Here in Marla’s apartment, the scene of my adulterous crime? How did Marla tell Helene? I’m having an affair with your husband, Mrs. Tumwalt. Cream or sugar in your coffee? How awful for Helene!

Thank God she has not mentioned divorce. I could not bear that. I can live with her coldness to me. Certainly I could never blame her for it. But in time she will forgive me, I’m sure. In time she will warm up to me again.

He peeked around the door frame and saw Johnny Carson on the small screen. The room at the end of the hall was dark, except for the glow from the set. A platform of smoke hung shoulder-height in the den, fed by a ribbon of smoke curling up from the chair just inside the doorway.

It was a high-backed recliner, in its upright position, which hid its occupant from his view. But he knew she was there. He knew Marla was sitting right there in that chair, smoking, watching television, idling away her last moments on earth.

If only she hadn’t threatened to turn me in, he thought now. But she did. And I know she will carry out her threat if I don’t stop her, just as I’m sure she carried out her threat to tell Helene about us.

Slowly he slid his left hand down to his back pocket and pulled out the knotted nylon rope. He brought it forward, but the rope slipped out of his glove and he heard a loud thud as it dropped to the floor.

She heard! She heard! She...

No, he told himself. She couldn’t have heard. It made no sound on the carpet. He stared at the back of the recliner as he picked up the garrote. Why isn’t she laughing, he wondered. That joke was funny. He watched a puff of smoke rise from the chair, as he inhaled one last steadying breath.

He took a careful step toward the den and tried to remember if he’d ever heard the hall floor squeak. He took another step, Laughter. Another step. A deep breath. Another step. Another step. He closed his eyes in momentary relief at having made it unnoticed to the den doorway.

If only I hadn’t been able to cure her! he thought now. If only I had not erased her fear that she was turning homosexual, I would not be in this mess. But I did cure her. And she will tell everyone that I prescribed sex with me as her remedy. Lord, that sounds so debased. They would take my license away for sure.

He straightened the nylon rope between his hands. Applause. He rotated his right hand until the cord was wrapped once around it. Laughter. He did the same with his left hand. Johnny’s very funny tonight, he thought. He pulled at the rope. Yes. It’s strong enough.

Carefully, he took one step into the room. More laughter. He took another step. A new guest. Applause. Another step. Another.

“Hello, David.”

A sudden deadly silence pressed down on him. What happened to the applause? He looked at the television screen. It was a blank grey-green. The overhead light glared down on him like a spotlight. He swung around quickly to face the voice he had hoped was coming only from his imagination.

Marla stood in the doorway, smiling, her young body seemingly beckoning to him from beneath her thin lavendar gown. Her bare arms were smooth and tan, clear down to her hands, which gripped tightly onto a shiny black revolver. The dime-sized blackness pointing at him seemed the size of the barrel of a cannon, rather than a handgun.

“Marla,” he said. “Put down the gun.”

“You were going to kill me, weren’t you, David.”

“No. No,” he answered, quickly. “I was only going to scare you, that’s all.” He could feel beads of moisture forming on his forehead. “Put the gun away, Marla.”

“I’ve been expecting you, David,” she said, casually. “I knew you’d come tonight, after I threatened you today.”

“You’d be destroying my life, Marla. I’d be all washed up as a psychiatrist.” He looked down at the black menace in her hands. “But if you insist on turning me in, go ahead. I won’t stop you, Marla, I swear I won’t.”

Marla laughed “Don’t you understand yet, David? I had no intention of turning you in to anyone. I threatened to today so that you would come over and I could kill you.”

“You’ll never get away with it,” he said, feeling the perspiration trickle down his hairline. “Of course I will, David,” she said. “Who’s going to blame me for shooting a burglar. I mean, how was I to know it was just an ex-boyfriend sneeking into my apartment in the dark.” She smiled.

“As a matter of fact, David, you’ve made my story even more convincing. The gloves. The garrote. Even if I tell the police the lights were on and I knew it was you, they’ll understand why I shot you.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled again. “Self-defense.”

His hands were shaking. He swallowed hard and fought to push the words out past his thickened tongue. “But why, Marla? Why do you want to kill me?”

“Simple David. You are standing in our way.”

He turned around quickly to face the reeling chair, from which this voice had come. His last word, before the bullet hit him was “Helene!”