The name of my victim is Fleur Bronski. She is twenty-five, and rather attractive. For a number of months I have been living with her. She was lonely; I was kind. I may even have told her I loved her. Sometimes we are careless about the words we use. Surely, I could not have meant it seriously. More than anything, my living with her was a convenient arrangement, a temporary thing.
Fleur is an artist, possibly a good artist. She thinks. Most women never do. And she is honest. There are many fine things about her, and it is regrettable that I have to kill her, but what other course can I follow? She told me, yesterday, that if I tried to leave her, she would kill me. She was not hysterical, nor frantic, nor wild. She was very calm, very positive. I am sure she meant exactly what she said.
As evidence of this I must recount one of our conversations. It was held long ago, just after I had moved into her apartment. In straightening one of the drawers, I came cross a gun. It was fully loaded, a very lethal weapon, and as I held it in my hand I said, “Fleur, what’s this?”
“A gun,” she answered, and she even smiled.
“Where did you get it?” I asked curiously.
“In a store. I bought it.”
“But why?”
Her face sobered instantly. “Do you remember Aaron Friedlander? But of course you don’t. He was an art critic. Possibly the most important critic in the country.”
“A young man?”
“Silly! Of course not. He was at least eighty. An authority on art.”
“But where does the gun come in?”
“Do you remember my painting, Delilah at Midnight? It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done. I submitted it in the Fall Festival Contest. I think I might have had a chance, but Mr. Friedlander didn’t like it. He made fun of it, ridiculed it, said it was horrible. He was an impossible man.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died right after the Fall Festival Contest. I think it was a heart attack.”
“But the gun...”
She smiled again. “Put it away, dear. I didn’t have to use it.”
I didn’t say a word as I replaced the gun but I was faintly excited, and I had a new respect for Fleur. She was a potential murderer, just as I. She had the courage, the strength, and the daring to use the power to kill. If Friedlander had not died of a heart attack, he would have died of a bullet.
In a way it is too bad I was unable to fall in love with Fleur. If I were a pedantic individual cut into an ordinary mold, I might have been satisfied with the monotony of marriage. Instead, I am a different breed of animal. I live by change, by variety, by new experience. I will wear no harness. I will not sink into the morass of comfort and conformity. I cannot walk flat-footed, but I walk on my toes. I soar above the earth. This is the way it must be, always. Margo Dupres is not a destination. I tried to explain that to Fleur, but it was beyond her. She was ridiculously jealous.
I went into the matter this morning, quite fully. Margo Dupres is a new experience. She is young, beautiful, and wealthy. She is of the generation and group which flies to Paris for breakfast after a night on the town here. Then, on impulse, they might decide to go skiing in Switzerland, or bathing at Biarritz. It is the go-go-go crowd, filled with excitement, adventure, fun. Someday I will do some serious writing. To prepare for it, I must sample everything that is possible.
“I think you are crazy,” Fleur said.
I shook my head. “No, this is a step I must take, a dip into another phase of living.”
“What will you do about money? You have been using mine. Now, will you live on Margo?”
I was even able to smile. Money is something I have never worried about. It is a shackle. I will have nothing to do with shackles.
“Will you marry her?” Fleur asked.
“What’s marriage?” I shrugged my shoulders. “A few words, a ceremony, a promise easily broken.”
“We didn’t get married.”
“Then we’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I think we should now,” Fleur said. “I want to get married.”
I sighed, and started again, explaining how I felt, but I got nowhere. Fleur could paint a canvas so wild it defied the imagination, a riot of colors and form, modern as tomorrow. But in her personal life and within the framework of her beliefs, she was very provincial. We had not married, but we would. She definitely counted on that, and in view of the breach between us, it became imperative.
I broke it off. I told her bluntly that I was leaving. That was that. But Fleur had a final word. If I left, she would follow me, find me, and kill me. She would do that if she had to follow me around the world.
That is the way things stand right now. Margo is waiting for me at Yacht Harbor. We will sail up the sound. We may stop at Shelter Island; we might head for Maine, or Miami. The destination is unimportant, but what about Fleur and the promise she made? Can I forget her? She has the power to kill. There is only one way to cancel her threat, and that is murder.
This morning, while she was away, I moved out my things. And now, this afternoon, I am waiting for her to return from the studio. Usually she gets back by three-thirty. If she is not late, I should be able to join Margo by six. She said we would sail on the tide, just at sunset.
A little while ago I looked at Fleur’s gun. It has not been used. It is still loaded. I had thought of using it, but I have changed my mind about that. Fleur is a gentle person. If she is to die, she should die gently. Therefore I have decided to make a game of it. I will be nice to her when she comes home. I will suggest that we go out for dinner. Before we go she will want a bath. She always does. And she takes a tub bath, never locks the bathroom door. What would be easier than to walk into the bathroom with a radio in my hand. She has a small set, and I have a long extension cord. I will plug in the set, turn it on, walk into the bathroom and drop the radio into the tub of water. It can be made to look accidental, or it can be made to look like a suicide. A simple plot, but very effective — a perfect example of the high art of murder.
Fleur just telephoned. She is on her way here and she seemed pleased that I answered the telephone. She said, “Darling, you’re already home? You surprise me.”
From her voice I knew that she was shutting her eyes to reality. She was still clinging to the belief that I would not leave her. I smiled, and let her have her dreams, and said, “I’ve been waiting for an hour.”
“Then I’ll hurry.” Fleur said. “I’ve a bottle of wine in the closet. Put it in the refrigerator. And don’t touch the canapes.” Fleur isn’t one of the world’s best cooks, but she can set up a paté de foie gras which is heavenly.
Fifteen minutes have passed. Fleur has not yet arrived. I did not expect her this quickly, but it had suddenly occurred to me that she’s not coming. Just a moment ago I felt a sharp cramp in my stomach. I thought it was a gas pain, but I was wrong. The pain is still there. It is growing stronger — and stronger — and stronger. It is even beginning to fog my thinking. That paté de foie gras — could it have been poisoned?
Definitely! And why am I surprised? The power to kill belongs to everyone. Fleur was quicker than I, that’s all. She has made me the victim. I have failed, but the example still stands. The art remains. You have the demonstration I promised. Fleur! Ah, what a woman!
The Adventure of the Intarsia Box
by August Derleth