Marcia laughed at him. "You shouldn't hit me until after I've read you something, Daddy-O," she said. "I might scream for the police and tell them what a dirty old man you are."
The old man stood stock-still and lowered his arm. There was a look of alarm on his face. It was followed by a look of cunning. He backed to his chair and dropped heavily into it.
"You are right, daughter," he said. "It is almost time for the Bible. Read to me."
"Not the Bible, Daddy-O. I want to read you something from the newspaper."
"I've read the paper, child," the old man replied. "I have little interest in worldly news. You and your dear sister and I have a warm little world of our own here. We must keep it to ourselves, sacred to our happy little family."
"I don't think we can any longer, Daddy-O," said Marcia. She unfolded the paper.
She looked at the old man. There was mockery in her smile now.
"This is from the society page, Daddy-O," Marcia said. "I doubt you ever read the society page."
She paused, teasing the old man. He sat perfectly still, staring at her. His cigar dropped from the table and began to scorch the rug. Helen saw it but did not move to pick it up.
Marcia began to read.
Mr. and Mrs. Paul Carter of Rye, N.Y. were among the passengers on the S.S. Constitution which sailed for Europe today. They will make an extended tour of England and the Continent. Mrs. Carter is the former Sylvia Enright. Mr. Carter is vice-president of the Enright Advertising Agency.
Marcia put the paper down and laughed aloud at the old man.
"Paul Carter is the man you claim I killed, Daddy-O," she said.
The old man's face went suddenly ashen. He began to breathe heavily, noisily.
"Mistake," he gasped. "I told you, police — "
Suddenly, his face was contorted with pain and his body bent forward. His hands clutched at his chest.
"Attack," he said. "Get tablets. Quick. Bathroom."
Marcia continued to snicker. "Why, sure, Daddy-O. Dear little Dora will get you your tablets."
She walked toward the bathroom. Helen sat, her body stiff, staring fixedly at the old man.
I really believe he's dying, she thought. I didn't think he could ever die. I never saw anyone die before. Mother and Dad died when we were both so little. I never saw anyone die before, and I don't feel a thing.
Marcia returned from the bathroom, the little smile still on her face.
"I'm sorry, Daddy-O," she said. "But you must have taken all the tablets. There's not one left. Not a single one left. It's too bad we haven't got a phone. I might call a doctor if we had."
The old man was making snorting sounds. He slumped forward until half his body was on the floor.
He gasped, "Please… please…"
He might have been pleading with Marcia. He might have been pleading with his God.
He said "Please," again, and then he stopped breathing.
Marcia, still smiling, reached down and began to twine a single wisp of hair on his bald head between her fingers.
"Poor Daddy-O," she said. "I think poor Daddy-O is dead, Helen."
There was a long silence.
Finally, Helen said, "Oh, my God, Marcia, what will we do? They mustn't find him here!"
For once Marcia didn't run away.
"It won't be easy because he's so fat," she said. "We'll wait until it's late at night. He's kept his apartment. The key is in his pocket. We can't carry him, but we'll drag him down the hall. Then we'll put all his stuff back in his apartment. They'll find him there, dead of a heart attack. That'll be the end of it."
Marcia reached into the pocket of her housecoat and held up a vial of white tablets.
"We'll put these alongside his body," she said. "That'll be a nice touch, don't you think?"
Suddenly Marcia and Helen began to giggle foolishly.
They'd giggled something like that when they were children, and had been up to mischief.
The Crime Machine
by JACK RITCHIE
Wanting something for nothing has been man's dream, since he first saw the advantages of being intolerably greedy. It has been dreams such as these that have made man what he is. Flaw-wise, man is tops.
"I was present the last time you committed murder," Henry said.
I lit my cigar. "Really?"
"Of course you couldn't see me."
I smiled. "You were in your time machine?"
Henry nodded.
Naturally I didn't believe a word of it. About the time machine. He could actually have been present however, but not in that fantastic manner.
Murder is my business and the fact that there had been a witness when I disposed of James Brady was naturally disconcerting. And now, for the sake of security, I would have to devise some means of getting rid of Henry. I had no intention of being blackmailed by him. Not for any length of time, at least.
"I must warn you that I have taken pains to let people know that I have come here, Mr. Reeves," Henry said. "They do not know why I am here, but they do know that I am here. You understand, don't you?"
I smiled again. "I do not murder people in my own apartment. It is the height of inhospitality. And so there will be no necessity for you to switch our drinks. I assure you your glass contains nothing stronger than brandy."
The situation was basically unpleasant, but nevertheless I found myself rather enjoying Henry's bizarre story. "This machine of yours, Henry, is it a bit like a barber's chair?"
"To some degree," he admitted.
Evidently we had both seen the same motion picture. "With a round reflector-like device behind you? And levers in front which you pull to propel you into the past? Or the future?"
"Just the past. I'm still working on the mechanism for the future." Henry sipped his brandy. "My machine is also mobile. That is, it not only projects me into the past, but also to any point on the earth I desire."
Excellent, I thought. Quite an improvement over the old model time machines. "And you are invisible?"
"Correct. I cannot participate in any manner in the past. I can only observe."
This madman did at least think with some degree of logic. To so much as injure the wing of a butterfly ten thousand years ago could conceivably re-shuffle the course of history.
Henry had come to my apartment at three in the afternoon. He had not given me his last name, which was entirely natural since he intended to blackmail me. He was fairly tall and thin, with glasses that gave him an owlish appearance and hair that tended toward anarchy.
He leaned forward. "I read in yesterday's newspaper that a James Brady was shot to death in a warehouse on Blenheim Street at approximately eleven in the evening of July the twenty-seventh."
I thought I could supply the rest. "And so you hopped into your time machine, set the dials back to July the twenty-seventh and to Blenheim Street and were there at ten-thirty for a ringside seat, waiting for me to re-commit the crime?"
"Precisely."
I would have to discuss this particular form of insanity with Dr. Powers. He is a quite mature and — since I disposed of his wife — wealthy psychiatrist.
Henry smiled thinly. "You shot James Brady at exactly ten-fifty-one. As you stooped over him to make certain that he was dead, you dropped your car keys. You said, 'Oh, damn!' and picked them up. At the door of the warehouse, you looked back and lifted your hand in a mock salute to the corpse. Then you departed."
Unquestionably he had been there. Not in that fabulous time machine, but probably hiding among the thousands of boxes and bales inside the warehouse — an accidental witness to the murder. It was one of those unfortunate coincidences that occur occasionally to mar an otherwise perfect killing. But why did he bother to resort to this fantastic story?