Mark Spencer continued down the stairs, one slow step at a time. Out on the sidewalk he stopped, a slow smile growing on his face.
He took Hugo’s key ring out of his pocket. Car keys, the key to the office, the key to the back door of the plant, and two keys Mark didn’t recognize.
He went to Hugo’s car and slid in behind the wheel. Before he started the motor he reached into the glove compartment and made sure the gun was there. As an afterthought he took it out and made sure the clip was loaded.
Then he started the motor and drove off into the night.
Killing Mildred was not as difficult as Mark had anticipated. She had not even stirred in her sleep when he went into her bedroom quietly and turned on the light.
By now Mark was thinking in terms of later police investigation. Or even earlier police investigation. He touched nothing except with his handkerchief. He kept in mind the fact that he was doing Mildred a kindness. How many women with unfaithful husbands died in their sleep without ever having found out what was going on? Mildred was really very lucky.
Mark left the bedroom light on and the front door unlocked. He paused in the shadows on the porch and waited to make sure he would not meet anyone on the way back to Hugo’s car, parked at the curb.
He detoured to the factory and let himself in with Hugo’s key. He put the gun in the center drawer of Hugo’s desk after rubbing it clean of fingerprints again, including the clip. That second unfamiliar key on Hugo’s key ring was for that desk drawer, Mark discovered. He locked the drawer.
Before he left the plant he went to his own office and called the police, disguising his voice and making it sound sleepy.
“Hello? Police station?” he said, his voice devoid of energy. “I think I heard a shot next door at the Rice’s place. Maybe Hugo shot Mildred, they don’t get along too well. They live at nineteen thirty-six Crest Drive. Got that? Nineteen thirty-six Crest Drive.” He hung up while the desk sergeant was asking for his name and phone number.
He drove straight to his apartment house and parked Hugo’s car in the same spot it had been parked before, and left the keys dangling from the ignition.
He walked two blocks to the neighborhood gas station, now closed for the night. He used the outside phone booth and dialed his apartment number and let it ring. He could visualize Claire and Hugo in bed, Claire debating whether to answer, and Hugo pointing out that if it was Mark coming back a day early, she’d better answer.
On the seventh ring she answered, her voice sleepy and questioning.
“Darling!” Mark said excitedly. “I’m at the airport. I finished the job a day early. I couldn’t wait to get home. I’ll catch a taxi and be there in twenty minutes.”
“Oh...” Claire was silent a moment. “I’m so glad, darling. I’ll have some coffee on when you get home. Bye...”
Mark waited in the phone booth twenty minutes, smoking his first cigarette since leaving the airport — how long ago? In another life! He walked the two blocks back to the apartment building. Hugo’s car was gone. Mark retrieved his suitcase from the janitor’s closet under the stairway and took the stairs two at a time, working himself into an appearance of his normal enthusiasm and happiness.
Claire met him at the door with her usual tight little hug and quick kiss, and secret smile.
Only now, Mark too had a secret smile.
It was surprising, Mark discovered, how easy it was to look at Claire and smile, now that he knew what she was and he no longer loved her. The coffee was delicious. He discovered he was hungry. Claire fixed him a tuna salad sandwich on white toast. It reminded him that she had once told him she had worked as a waitress for a year while attending business school. The sandwich had a definite professional touch.
After finishing the sandwich Mark stretched and yawned. “Am I tired!” he exaggerated. He stood up, fished in his pants pocket for a quarter, and dropped it on the table beside his plate.
“What’s that for?” Claire said.
“What?” Mark said. “Oh.” He looked down at the quarter, then smiled at Claire. “Habit. I’m away from home so often. But why shouldn’t wives get tips?” He yawned widely and turned away from the table, leaving the quarter there.
“Thank you, sir,” Claire said as he pushed open the door to the livingroom. Her voice was just a shade too high and too thin.
“Which reminds me,” Mark said, pausing and turning around. “I saw some nice looking bedroom sets in a show window in Chicago this morning. You know, people ought to get new furniture once in a while. I don’t have to go back to the office tomorrow. I think I’ll sleep through the morning.”
“All right, Mark,” Claire said. “I’ll be right with you as soon as I do the dishes.”
“Take your time,” Mark said. “I’m tired. Been a long day. Going to sleep.”
He let the kitchen door swing shut and went to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. Claire must have really worked during that twenty minutes; making the bed, tidying up, doing the dishes, making sure that Hugo hadn’t left any cigar butts she hadn’t found, and spraying the air. He could smell the faint odor of lilacs from the spray deodorizer.
Mark went to bed. When Claire came in later he pretended to be asleep. He lay on his stomach with his face half buried in the pillow and his cradled arms.
After a few moments the lights went out. Mark steeled himself not to flinch if Claire touched him. She slid into bed without touching him and lay on her side of the bed without moving.
The darkness and silence built up into a loneliness in which he lay, dry eyed. Finally he went to sleep. When he awoke it was morning and he could hear the vacuum cleaner going in the livingroom. He looked at the clock and it was eleven-thirty. He flopped over and sat up, reaching for a cigarette, while last night came back to him.
Last night kicked him in the stomach as it came back, bit by vivid bit. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, letting the fresh smoke bite into his lungs as a counterirritant. Finally he was able to view things with the detachment he had captured last night.
Grinding out his cigarette, he got up and began the automatic routine of showering, brushing his teeth, shaving, combing his hair, and dressing. It was nice not to think for a full ten minutes.
He took a deep breath before opening the bedroom door. Claire was at the front door looking at someone outside in the hall. She turned her head. Her face had aged ten years.
“Mark,” she said, “it’s the police. They want to talk to us.”
“Well, have them come in!” Mark said, “And get me some coffee.” He hurried to the door and took over while Claire escaped to the kitchen.
The two men wore ordinary business suits. “I’m Lt. Jones and he’s Lt. Stevens,” the taller of the two men said, holding up his identification.
“Come on in,” Mark said. “I’m Mark Spencer. What’s happened? A burglary in the building? Do you want some coffee? Claire, bring two more cups.”
Claire was already backing through the kitchen door with a tray. She hurried over and put it down on the coffee table.
“No coffee, please — well, since you’ve brought extra cups. It does smell good,” Lt. Jones said.
“I need my coffee,” Mark said in the silence after the two men had sat down on the davenport and Claire was pouring. “I just got up. Slept late. Uh, what apartment was robbed?”
“No burglary,” Lt. Jones said. “Say, this coffee is good! We just want to ask a few routine questions. You and your wife home last night?”
“She was,” Mark said. “I wasn’t. I got back from Chicago, and called her from the airport to let her know I was home, then caught a taxi straight home from the airport. We were here together for the rest of the night.”