Because it was marvelous to be able to sit in the sun! And this was enough to keep a man alive!
Mr. Gibson began to feel a bit hysterical. No, no, he •juould do it! One second of resolution—that was all he Qeeded. Surely he could manage to lift hand to mouth— one quick gesture—without thought . . .
But if he waited to write a letter. No, no! His whole decision was running away, running out of him. But couldn't the doomed of God ask a little kindness of the devil? Quick, then! Or suffer the tragicomedy out, be a spectator in his own skull and watch his ovni acts with what bitter amusement could be salvaged.
He was in the kitchen. He did not have—he did not even want—that kind of courage. Not any more.
He put the big brown bag on the counter. He took out the head of lettuce, the piece of cheese, loaf of bread, the box of tea, and, heavy at the bottom of the bag, the can of cocoa. And now he groped for the bottle of death. He would do it at once!
The big bag was absolutely empty.
Yes, quickly.
His hand met nothing.
His death would be a mystery: death always was. Where—?
But surely he had put the small green paper bag, twisted up around the little bottle, into the market basket, and the checker girl would have put it in with his purchases. She hadn't. It wasn't here.
Where was it? The terrible quick poison he had gone so far to steal?
He searched his jacket pockets. Not there!
Had he dreamed the whole thing? No, surely he remembered pouring the olive oil into the sink far too vividly to have done it in a dream. He had lost it? But the poison was now in a bottle labeled "olive oil." Nobody would have any way of knowing it was poison! Colorless, odorless, instant . . .
What had he done?
Oh, what wicked error had he made this time?
Where had he left a bottle of poison that looked so innocent? In what public place where innocent people came and went?
The shock nearly caused him to fall down. Then his blood raced and cried no no no m perfect revulsion.
Well, it was the end of him. The end of Kenneth Gibson. The end of all respect for him, forever. But somebody else was going to get the poison and die of it unless he could jjrevent this.
The lightning change of all his purposes sent him stumbling to the telephone. He dialed. He said, "Police." His voice did not sound like his own. Every bit of any kind of courage he had, stiffened his spine. Face it. All right. No nonsense, now. A sickness seemed to fall off him.
The front door of the cottage opened. His wife Rosemary was standing there.
"I came," she said, intent upon herself and her own thoughts, "because I have got to talk to you. I can't—be such a rabbit—" Her face changed. "Kenneth, what's the matter?"
He had held up his hand for her to be silent. He thrust away every thought but one.
"Police? This is Kenneth Gibson. I have mislaid a small bottle filled with deadly poison." He articulated very clearly and spoke forcefully. "The bottle is labeled olive oil. It is roughly a pyramid, about five inches high, and it's inside a green paper bag. Nobody is going to know that it is poison. Can you do anything? Can you find it? Can you put out a warning?"
Rosemary shrank back against the door.
"I stole it. From a laboratory. . . . Can't give you the name of the stuff. It is odorless, tasteless . . . fatal. . . . Yes, sir. I took a Number Five bus at the comer of Main and Cabrillo at about a quarter after one o'clock. Got off at Lambert and the Boulevard . . . must have been one forty-five. I was in the market there possibly ten or fifteen minutes. It's just after two o'clock now. . . . Yes. Walked to my house . . . and just now discovered I haven't got it. . . . No, I am absolutely sure. . . . I put it in the olive-oil ; bottle. . . . Brand? King somebody-or-other. . . . Yes, I " did that. . . . Why? Because I was going to use it myself," he told the barking questioner on the line. "I intended to kill myself."
Rosemary whimpered. He did not look at her.
"Yes, I know it may kill somebody else. That's why I'm calling. . . ." The voice raged in a controlled way. "Yes, I am criminal," said Mr. Gibson. "Anything you say. Find it. Please, do all you can to find it."
He gave his name again. His address. His phone number.
He put the phone upon the cradle.
"Why?" said Rosemary.
He had thought never to see her again.
"Kenneth, I didn't. I didn't. Forgive me. I didn't — "
He scarcely heard what she said. He spoke harshly. "Go back to your shop. Know nothing about this. Don't get into it. Leave me. I may have caused someone to die. I may be a murderer. No good to you now. Leave me." He willed her to vanish.
Rosemary shoved herself away from the slab of the door, and stood on her feet. She said, "No. I will not leave you. It isn't going to happen. Nobody will be poisoned. We will go and find it."
He made a gesture of despair. "Oh no, mouse, no use to dream . . ."
"That's wrong" said Rosemary. ''That's untrue. We can find the poison. I can— and I fjuill. And you'll come too. Paul will help us!" she cried and whirled and opened the door. "Come . . ." she said imperiously.
"All right," said Mr. Gibson. "We can try, I suppose."
He walked out into the sunshine. He was very cold. He was as good as dead. He was so ruined a man—by this stroke of fate or whatever it was—it seemed to him that he had most unfortunately survived himself.
Rosemary ran, calling, "Paul! Paul!"
Paul bobbed up from behind a hedge. "What's up?" he said cheerfully.
"Help us. Kenneth had some poison. . . . He's left it someplace. We have to find it."
"Poison! What's this!"
"Your car. Please. Please, Paul. It's in a bottle labeled olive oil. Anybody might get it. He's left it at the market Or on a bus. We have to go there."
Paul tossed her some keys. "Get out the car," he said. His hand clenched around Mr. Gibson's forearm. "What's she talking . . . ?"
"It is Number Three thirty-three," Mr. Gibson said perfectly distinctly, "I went downtown and stole it from your cupboard."
"What in heller
"I was going to kill myself," said Mr. Gibson without apology. "Now I may kill somebody else."
Paul stepped back and withdrew his hand as if from contamination. He turned and yelled at Rosemary. "Did you call the police?"
She was vanishing into Paul's garage. "Yes! Yfts! Hurry! Hurry!" she shouted.
Paul said, "Got to tell Mama—get a shirt—" He leaped up on his porch. "Don't go without me," he yelled back over his shoulder. Mr; Gibson stood still. Rosemary was in the garage trying to start a strange car.
But the quiet neighborhood was still quiet. This crisis was like a dagger plunged into flesh that did not yet feel any wound. He, the cause, stood still and could smell lavender and feel the weight of the sun's heat. He experienced a moment out of time. He might as well have killed himself, for he knew he was lost. But also he was being bom again. He closed his eyes and turned his face to the caress of the light.
Then Paul's De Soto came bucking and plunging backward. It stopped and Rosemary swung the door and leaned out. "Get in."
Mr. Gibson went meekly, and climbed into the front seat as she shoved over. She seemed to be quite sure that Paul was coming to do the driving.
Paul came in an instant, buttoning a blue shirt over his naked chest. He shoved long legs under the wheel. "Where to, Rosie?"
"The market," she said decisively.
Mr. Gibson sat in the middle. He might as well have been a wax dummy.