“My wife said I should wait and ask you. Beats me, how women are always right—some of the time.”
The return address was her husband's. Once outside the store, I opened the letter. The sonofabitch had traced her through the damn moving company, those two barrels of her records. He wanted to know if she was still pregnant and, if so, if she still was going to have the kid. He said he'd give her a week to answer him before taking up the matter with his mother and her lawyers.
I walked along the beach, trying to figure what to do. She could write that she had a miscarriage, but he probably wouldn't be content with that, would snoop about.
I wasn't going to tell her, but we only had a few days left in the week he gave her to answer. Elma saw I was upset and finally I showed her the letter that night and she fainted. I got the doc over and he gave her something to make her sleep, told me, “Seems to have suffered a shock of some kind. Your wife looks and is strong and healthy, but with a first baby a woman.... She'll have to take it easy. I want her to remain in bed for the next week, have absolute rest.”
I tried my best, we didn't even talk about it too much, but Elma would lie there and cry all day, and even though Alice came over and acted as a nurse, Elma got worse: her face almost looked like a death mask. The doctor gave me seven pills, said, “Give Mrs. Jameson one of these any time she gets excited, but no more than one a day. Your wife seems terribly upset about something. Having a family quarrel?”
“No.”
“She's a mighty sick girl. Frankly, if she doesn't get better, I may have to take the baby... and I'm not sure she'll survive that.”
“She... might die?”
“There's a chance. I don't want to frighten you, but I do want you to know the gravity of the situation, the importance of keeping her calm. Hysteria can be as deadly as a poison—in her condition. Whatever is exciting her has to stop.”
When he was gone I sat in my studio, staring at the head of Elma I was working on. The problem was clear in my mind.... I was in danger of losing Elma. Even if she didn't die, if the bastard took her kid, had her deported, where would I be? Staring at the clay face, that seemed to be nearly alive with her warmth, everything seemed so damn unfair. All we asked was to be left alone, a chance at happiness, and this miserable sonofabitch insisted on killing her—us.
I went in the bedroom. Alice was sitting beside Elma's sleeping figure, working on her book, writing on long yellow notepaper. She said, “What's wrong, Marsh? Why up to now Elma has been as healthy as a baby food ad, then all of a sudden—a nose dive. Anything wrong?”
“No.”
“Makes me afraid to hope for a kid. You hear about women getting these mental quirks during pregnancy. Like tipping a balance, one day very healthy, the next day...”
“Things will work out,” I said. “Be back soon.”
I went to the store in the village. I didn't want to use our phone in case he traced the call—although he knew where Elma was. I got the Newark operator, asked for the number of the shop. A man's voice answered and I asked, “Mr. Maxwell Morse?”
“Yes.”
“This is Doctor Rogers. I'm calling about your wife. Your letter has upset her to the point where her life is in danger.”
“Is she still pregnant?”
“Yes, and having a very hard time. Unless you give up your demand for the baby, I cannot be responsible for her condition, or her life.”
“Is she in a hospital?”
“That doesn't matter. Unless you stop annoying her with your unreasonable demands...”
“She can put her mind at ease by giving me the child. She's not a fit mother to...”
“Mr. Morse, your wife doesn't even know I'm calling you. Can't you understand that her life is in danger? That...”
“That's a decision she must make. After all, she's a young woman, can have other children. I feel I have as much right to my child, give it all the advantages...”
I hung up.
We'd tried everything. There was only one more possibility, the one thing I thought about deep in my mind, even dreamed about at times when the thought escaped and came out into the open.... How simple things would be if Elma became a widow.
The idea of killing this Mac scared the bejesus out of me. But I knew it was the only out left.
Mac had to die.
I had to kill... figure out a perfect murder.
CHAPTER FIVE
I HAD THE RUNS THAT NIGHT, I WAS SO NERVOUS.
And when I wasn't running, I was sweating. I lay beside Elma, hearing her moan now and then in her sleep, or her leg suddenly kick out—a reflex of nervous terror. And I tried to think how to murder her husband.
“Comic” books and contemporary literature to the contrary, murder is a sickening, insane thought—a reflection of a sick world. The very idea of one human ending the hopes, the desires, the laughter and sadness of another human is the height of stupid conceit. Much as I hated Mac, I didn't want to kill him. Yet I had no choice: it was either him or losing Elma... which would be the same as ending my own life.
But murder frightened me: I'd never been so frightened. I tried to think it out thoroughly.... How does one murder? I was a layman, the rankest of amateurs, and I had to plan the greatest of all crimes—the perfect killing. One thing was for sure—getting caught would be as bad as losing Elma.
My thoughts raced around in a tired circle. Undoubtedly as soon as Mac was killed, the police would get in touch with Elma—as his widow—and I'd be the number-one suspect. The first thing I needed was a good alibi. I thought of all sorts of childish things—like taking a rowboat and saying I was going fishing, beaching it on the shore and going into town and killing him, then returning to the boat and rowing in from the Sound at the end of the day. But I knew that was a lousy alibi—the cops had better trained minds than mine, they could figure that too.
And I knew the more I planned, the more chance I had of tripping myself. What was needed was a simple method of killing. I had one advantage—Mac had never seen me, so I could approach him without warning. But approach him where, when? Would I kill him on the street, strangle him in his sleep...?
I kept turning ideas over in my mind—most of them things I'd read or seen in the movies—till I had a headache and was still no nearer having a plan. With murder there cannot be any failure.
Towards morning the dope Elma took wore off and she began to cry softly, thinking I was asleep. Her crying was like a whip cutting my heart. I put my arms around her gently, tried to calm her. She sobbed, “Marsh, this is all so unfair to you. I wish I could control myself, I know I'm being selfish, but I can't even think of giving up my baby.”
“Darling, first have the baby. If you don't stop worrying you can have a miscarriage and that would be worse than losing the kid to Mac. You must believe that things will turn out right for us. We have to keep riding our luck—like in a crap game. When you're hot, have faith in yourself.”