Ira parked the car a block from home and walked down the alley to his garage. The house was completely dark, just as he expected. He took out his pocket watch and held it up so he could read the face by the feeble light that came from the street light in front of the house. It was 12:15 A.M. He still had plenty of time, and he wanted to make sure that Bertha and Emily were asleep, so he took out a cigarette. When he was finished, he stamped out the cigarette and pulled on his leather gloves. Then he made his way to the back of the house, being careful to keep in the shade of the lilac bushes.
Ira stood outside Bertha’s window and listened. He could hear her snoring peacefully in her bed. This is it, he said to himself. He carefully opened the screen and climbed in the window. The inside of the bedroom was black as India ink, but he had memorized the exact position of every piece of furniture in the room. He started for Bertha.
As he reached her bedside, his knees suddenly felt weak, and he could feel the fear and excitement welling up inside of him. He pulled the gloves on tighter and reached for her throat. As he did he heard a strange, panting noise and realized it was his own breathing. His arms felt leaden and he pulled them back, letting them hang at his sides. He flexed his almost paralyzed fingers to loosen them. He tried to reach for her throat again, but his arms refused to move. For some strange reason he just couldn’t do it. Drops of perspiration began to run down his face. The room started to spin. His whole careful plan seemed to explode in his mind. A long sob came involuntarily out of his choked throat. He reeled backward, stumbling over Bertha’s old maple rocker. At the sound of his fall, Bertha snorted and sat up in bed.
Ira picked himself up and lunged toward the window, upsetting a table and knocking a lamp to the floor in another series of crashes. Bertha screamed, a horrible, piercing scream. He half jumped, half fell out the window, tearing the screen off along the way. “Murder! Murder! Murder!” Bertha shouted. He rolled over and somehow managed to get to his feet. The light went on in Bertha’s room. He crashed through the lilac bushes and ran across his neighbor’s back yard. A yapping dog came out of nowhere and started snapping at his heels. He was sure he’d have a heart attack any second and the whole, terrible nightmare would be over.
When Ira reached the car, he tore the door open and jumped into the driver’s seat. His hands were shaking so he barely got the key into the ignition. Don’t forget the choke, he told himself. He pulled it out and pressed the starter button. The motor turned over about ten times but refused to start. He pulled the choke out further. It still wouldn’t start. Then he smelled gasoline fumes and realized he had flooded the motor by choking it when it was still warm.
Ira sat back and tried to remember all the things one is supposed to do to start a flooded motor. He pushed the choke in and held the gas pedal all the way down to the floor boards as long as he dared. Then he tried again. The motor groaned, sputtered and finally caught. He put the car in low and drove down the street with the lights off for two blocks.
As he turned east on Fiftieth Street he saw the flashing lights and heard the siren of an approaching police car. He pulled over to the curb and watched it go by, knowing only too well where it was going. Bertha or Emily hadn’t wasted any time in calling the police.
Ira tried his best to keep under the thirty mile an hour speed limit as he headed down Fiftieth Street toward the airport. At Upton Avenue he had to stop for a red light. As he sat there, wondering what could go wrong next, he heard a sudden screech of brakes behind him. He just had time to look up at his rear vision mirror. He was horrified by what he saw. The headlights reflected in the mirror weren’t going to stop.
The impact of the crash knocked Ira’s car half way across the intersection. His first impulse was to step on the gas and get out of there, but the jar had knocked his foot off the clutch and the motor had killed. By the time he got it started, the other driver was at his door.
“Say, what’sa matter with you, buddy? Don’t you know there’s a law against parking in the middle of the street?” the man said, opening Ira’s door.
“I wasn’t parking,” Ira said as he got out of his car. “I was waiting for the light to change.”
The other man pushed Ira. “Don’t get wise with me, buddy!” he said, slurring the words together. For the first time Ira realized the man had been drinking.
“But I assure you, I was just waiting for the light to change.”
“Oh, you were, were you,” the man said, following Ira as he walked to the back of the car to inspect the damage. “For your information, buddy, the light was green.”
“It was red,” Ira said as firmly as his courage would allow. He was somewhat relieved when he saw there were no visible signs of damage to his car, although the other car had a broken bumper guard.
“It was green,” the other driver said, pushing Ira again. Then he noticed a small crowd beginning to gather. “Somebody call a cop. I demand my rights!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call the police,” Ira said, trying to soothe the man. “Very little damage has been done.”
“You afraid of cops?” the man asked.
“No,” Ira lied, “but after all, man, you’ve been drinking.”
The man swung wildly at Ira, missing him by a good two feet. “All I had was one beer,” he said, “and you’re trying to hang a drunk charge on me.”
“I’m not trying to hang anything on you. I just want to settle this without any fuss,” Ira said.
“Well, it’s going to cost you plenty,” the man said, staggering back to inspect the front end of his car.
Ira took out his billfold. “Would fifty dollars do?” he asked.
The man looked up at Ira, trying to focus his eyes. “A hundred and fifty would be more like it,” he said loudly.
“But your car is hardly scratched,” Ira protested.
A young man about nineteen stepped forward and sided with Ira. “If you ask me, fifty dollars is plenty,” he volunteered.
“Who asked you?” the man said, swinging at the boy. The boy gave him a little push and he sat down on the pavement. “Well, I guess you’re right,” he said, making no effort to get up. “I’ll take the fifty,”
“I wouldn’t give him a cent,” the boy said, looking down at the drunk with disgust.
“Who asked you?” the man snapped again.
“Here,” Ira said, “take the fifty dollars and buy a cup of coffee.”
“Don’t want any coffee,” the man said as he took the money and got to his feet. “But I’ll buy you a drink.” He tried to put his arm around Ira.
“No, thank you,” Ira said, fending him off.
He made his way through the laughing crowd to his car. About six blocks later he noticed a clock in a drug store window. The hands pointed to 1:50. That can’t be right, Ira thought. He pulled out his pocket watch and found that it was the correct time. If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss his plane. He stepped on the gas, but instead of accelerating, the engine coughed and died. He put in the clutch and coasted over to the curb.
Ira pushed the starter button again and again until the battery completely died. “What now?” he said out loud. Then he noticed the gas gauge. It was on empty. But that’s impossible, he thought, I filled the tank before I took the car to the parking lot yesterday. Then it dawned on him; the crash had apparently caused a small rip in the gas tank.
Now Ira really began to panic. His plane left in just fifteen minutes. How was he going to get to the airport without a car? He decided he’d have to hitchhike and got out of the car. Then, for the first time that night, Ira had a bit of luck. He saw a cab coming down Fiftieth Street toward him. He stood in the middle of the street and flagged it down.