Janice was seated in the living room, on the unpaid-for new sofa, reading a slick women’s magazine and being instructed, no doubt, in some new way to make money disappear.
At first she didn’t recognize me. Then I removed the hat and glasses and she exclaimed, “Why, Freddie! I thought you were going to Chicago!”
“And so I am,” I told her. I redonned the hat and glasses, and moved over to close the picture-window drapes.
She said, “Whatever are you doing with that mustache? You look terrible with a mustache.”
I turned to face her, and withdrew the pistol from my pocket. “Walk out to the kitchen, Janice,” I said. I planned to make it seem as though a burglar had come in the back way, been surprised by Janice in the kitchen, and he had shot her.
She blinked at the gun, then stared wide-eyed at my face. “Freddie, what on earth—”
“Walk out to the kitchen, Janice,” I repeated.
“Freddie,” she said petulantly, “if this is your idea of a joke
“I’m not joking!” I said fiercely.
All at once her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands together childishly and she cried, “Oh, you old dear!”
“What?”
“You did get the washer-dryer after all!” And she leaped to her feet and hobble-trotted out to the kitchen, her high heels going clack-clack on the linoleum. Even then, in the last seconds of her life, her only thought was of adding yet another artifact to the mound of possessions she had already heaped high about her.
I followed her to the kitchen, where she was turning, puzzled, to say, “There isn’t any washer-dryer—”
I shot from the hip. Naturally, I missed, and the bullet perforated a dirty pot on the stove. I abandoned cowboy-style forthwith, aimed more carefully, and the second shot cut her down in midstream.
Three seconds of silence. They were followed by the sudden brrriinnnggg of the front doorbell, the sound box for which was on the kitchen wall three feet from my head.
I jumped, and then froze, not knowing what to do. My first instinct was to stay frozen and wait for whoever it was to go away. But then I remembered Janice’s little car in the driveway, advertising her presence. If there were no answer to the doorbell the visitor might become alarmed, might call for help from the neighbors or the police, and I would never manage to avoid detection.
So I had to go to the door. Disguised as I was, I should be able to fool any of Janice’s friends, none of whom knew me that well anyway. I would say I was the family doctor, that Janice was sick in bed and could see no one.
The bell rang again while I was still thinking, and the second burst unfroze me. Putting the gun away in my pocket, I hurried through the living room and stopped at the front door. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and eased the door open an inch.
Peering out, I saw what was obviously a door-to-door salesman standing on the welcome mat. He carried a tan briefcase and wore a slender gray suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, and a smile containing sixty-four gleaming teeth. He said, “Good afternoon, sir. Is the lady of the house at home?”
“She’s sick,” I said, remembering to make my voice deeper and hoarser than usual.
“Well, sir,” he bubbled, “perhaps I could talk to you for just a moment.”
“Not interested,” I told him. “Sorry.”
“Oh, but I’m sure you will be, sir. My company has something of interest to every parent—”
“I am not a parent.”
“Oh.” His smile faltered, but came back redoubled. “But my company isn’t of interest only to parents, of course. Briefly, I represent the Encyclopedia Universicana, and I’m not actually a salesman. We are making a preliminary campaign in this area—”
“I’m sorry,” I said firmly. “I’m not interested.”
“But you haven’t heard the best part,” he said urgently.
“No,” I said, and slammed the door, reflecting that Janice would have bought the Encyclopedia Universicana, and that I had dispatched her just in time.
But I had to get on with the plan. I would now ransack the house, emptying bureau drawers onto the floor, hurling clothing around in closets, and so forth. Then, when it was time, I would leave for my train.
I turned toward the bedrooms, and the phone rang.
Once again I froze. To answer or not to answer? If I did, if I didn’t — I finally decided I should, and would be again the family doctor.
I picked up the receiver, said hello, and a falsely hearty female voice chirped, “Magill Communications Survey calling. Is your television set on, sir?”
I stood there with the phone to my car.
“Sir?”
“No,” I said, and I hung up.
Doggedly, I turned again toward the bedroom, and this time I reached it. Opening a bureau drawer, I tossed its entire contents on the scatter rug. I didn’t have to worry about fingerprints, of course, since my fingerprints were quite naturally all over everything. The police would simply assume that the burglar, being a professional, had known enough to wear gloves.
I was working on the third drawer, having pocketed three pairs of earrings and an old watch for realism’s sake, when the doorbell rang.
I sighed, plodded wearily to the living room, and opened the door the usual inch.
A short stout woman, smiling like an idiot, said, “Hello, there! I’m Mrs. Turner, from over on Marigold Lane? I’m selling chances for our new car raffle at the United Protestant Church.”
“I don’t want any raffles,” I said.
“New car raffle,” she said.
“I don’t want any cars,” I said. I shut the door. Then I opened it again. “I have a car,” I said. And closed the door again.
On the way back to the bedroom, the echo of that conversation returned to me and it seemed to me I hadn’t been very coherent. Could I be more nervous than I’d thought?
No matter. In little more than an hour I would leave here and catch the train for New York.
I lit two cigarettes, got annoyed, stubbed one out, and went back to work. I finished the bureau and the one drawer in the vanity table and was about to start on the closet when the phone rang.
I had never before realized just how shrill, just how grating, that telephone bell actually was. And how long each ring was. And what a little space of time there was between rings. Why, it rang three times before I so much as took a step, and it managed to get in one more jarring dreeeeep for good measure as I hurried down the hall to the living room.
I picked up the receiver and a male voice said in my ear, “Hello, Andy?”
“Andy?”
He said it again. “Hello, Andy?”
Something was wrong. I said, “Who?”
He said, “Andy.”
I said, “Wrong number,” and gently hung up.
The doorbell clanged.
I jumped, knocking the phone off its stand onto the floor. I scooped it up, fumbling, and the doorbell sponged again.
I raced across the room, and forgetting all caution hurled the door open wide.
The man outside was gray-haired, portly, and quite dignified. He wore a conservative suit and carried a black briefcase. He smiled upon me and said, “Has Mr. Wheet been by yet?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Wheet,” he said. “Hasn’t he been here?”
“No one by that name here,” I said. “Wrong number.”