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After it was over, he planned to take a few of the knick-knacks Bertha had scattered about her room, something that easily could be disposed of later, to make it look like a simple case of robbery and murder. And, of course, he would wear gloves so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints left behind.

Yes, Ira thought, item five would be easy enough, so long as he didn’t get squeamish at the last moment. And he didn’t see how that would be possible.

Everything would be downhill after that. Item six consisted of nothing more than driving the car to the airport. He allowed himself a full hour for that, even though he knew it would take only twenty minutes. He’d leave the car in the free parking lot, where passengers were allowed to park their cars for long periods of time without any charge. In about a week’s time, he’d pick it up and sell it to a junk yard. There would be nothing to tie the car to the crime.

At 2:10 A.M. he would proceed with item seven, boarding Flight 412 to Milwaukee. He had made the reservation under the name of William Hill three weeks before and had reconfirmed it that afternoon. He wasn’t worried about bumping into any of his friends on the flight. It was a nightcoach. Ira’s friends were either quite well off, or else they traveled on expense accounts. They’d never dream of taking a coach — especially one leaving at 2:10 A.M.

The flight to Milwaukee would take one hour. Even if the plane were delayed, a remote possibility because the weather was perfect and the flight originated in Minneapolis, he would have plenty of time to complete item eight: reboarding his train when it arrived in Milwaukee at six A.M. This would be simple, too. For the past year he had left the train every Monday morning when it reached Milwaukee to buy a paper. It was an eccentric habit, and one the porter was well aware of. He knew no one would question him when he got back on the train. Once he was on the train it would be over. He’d have a perfect alibi and his masterpiece would be complete.

“St. Paul!” the conductor yelled as he walked by Ira’s compartment. Ira looked out the window. They were backing into the St. Paul Depot. There was just time for one more little detail. He held up his master plan and lit a corner of the paper with his cigarette lighter. Just before the flames reached his fingertips, he put it in the ash tray. He waited patiently until it was completely consumed then carefully broke up the pieces of ash with his pencil. When the train stopped, he removed his bifocals, put them in their case, tucked it into his inside coat pocket. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was exactly 11:27. The train was right on schedule.

As Ira climbed the long flight of stairs to the St. Paul Union Station waiting room, he mentally crossed item three off his list. He had left the train exactly as planned and, just as he had expected, no one paid him the slightest attention.

He walked quickly through the waiting room and out the front entrance. The car was right where he left it. He slid in behind the steering wheel, turned the key in the ignition and pressed the starter button. The motor turned over, but refused to start. The choke, Ira said to himself, how could you forget a simple detail like that? The used car salesman had explained the car didn’t have an automatic choke. He reached over and pulled it out about half way. The car started at once.

Ira paid the parking lot attendant and started the forty-five minute drive home. He felt a strange sensation in his chest and his hands felt clammy on the steering wheel. Don’t panic now, he told himself, you’ve planned this too long. He stopped for a red light at Kellogg and Wabasha. While he was waiting for it to change, he looked about the car. It wasn’t what he was used to driving; the upholstery was faded and worn and it had a slightly musty smell. But the motor ran smoothly and the clutch, transmission and brakes were good. It would do very nicely.

As the light changed he noticed the radio on the dashboard. The salesman had said it worked, and Ira wondered if it actually did. He turned it on. The tuning dial lit up and the vibrator tube began to buzz. Within a block the car was filled with music.

Ira was glad the radio did work. The music would soothe him on the long drive. Ira had never been one to keep up with popular music, the classics were more to his liking, but he did recognize the tune that was playing: Thanks for the Memory. It had been quite popular that damp, miserable fall in 1938 when Bertha had come to live with Emily and him.

His mind couldn’t help drifting back to that black day. Bertha had just been widowed. Since Emily was her only child, it was natural that she should stay with them during her period of grief, a grief that even then Ira suspected didn’t exist. At first Bertha talked of moving out to the Coast to live with an unmarried younger sister. But the weeks dragged on to months and the months dragged on to years and now, twenty-two years later, she was still with them. Once in a while, usually at the end of January, when the Minnesota winter was at its worst, she talked of moving out to the Coast to live with her sister. But Ira was almost certain she never would. She enjoyed tormenting him too much; it was the only pleasure she had left in life.

Ira probably could have put up with Bertha if she had withdrawn and kept to herself, but she didn’t. Quite the contrary, she took over the household and ran it with an iron hand. And Emily, poor Emily, was completely incapable of standing up to her mother.

Somehow it seemed to be the little things that hurt the most. Ira had always wanted a dog to take the place of the children he and Emily had never been fortunate enough to have. But Bertha didn’t like dogs.

Ira had always wanted to see the world, but Bertha was too old to travel and they couldn’t leave her home alone. Consequently, the only traveling Ira ever did was his weekly trip to Chicago and the monthly flight of fancy he took when the National Geographic came.

But the crowning blow, the event that finally spurred Ira into putting his plan into action, had taken place just a little over three weeks ago. Bertha had just received a letter from her sister on the coast. The sister was lonely, she needed companionship during her last years, and she pleaded with Bertha to come and live with her. Bertha was still in the process of making up her mind when Ira came home to dinner that night. He believed she might have gone if it hadn’t been for Emily.

“Oh, Mother, you can’t go,” Emily said tearfully when Bertha read the letter to Ira.

Ira was dumbfounded. “But your Aunt Kate needs her,” he said.

“So do we,” Emily said. “I don’t know what I’d do without Mother.”

It was the first time Ira realized Emily no longer felt the same way about Bertha that he did. Bertha’s domination had become so complete during the past twenty-two years that Emily had given up her yearning for freedom. She was content to have Bertha run her forever.

“But Emily,” Ira said desperately, “think of your poor Aunt Kate”

But it was too late.

“Emily’s right,” Bertha said. “She needs me more than Kate does. Besides, California is so far away — and it’s such a strange place — I don’t think I’d ever feel secure out there. No, I’ll stay here in Minneapolis with you till the day I die.”

And Ira was sure she would. His plan was the only escape left now. As much as he hated to do it, he had to kill her. He owed it to himself and to Emily, whom, in spite of her mother, he dearly loved. After all, the twenty-two years of hell he had had to endure gave him the right to enjoy the few good years he had left.