On the way back to Sandyhook, I stopped at Len's garage, had the car gassed and oiled, told Len the motor was missing, and he spent an hour checking it while I had lunch. I had confidence in him, he was one of these slow, but careful, mechanics... kind that handles a car like he was in love with it.
It was almost four when I returned. Alice and Elma were talking in the bedroom. I gave them some cock-and-bull story about missing my agent,—waiting for him... something about an exhibit I'd read about in Dayton, where they have a ritzy art center.
Elma seemed rested and when Alice finally left, I gave Elma the papers to read and went to my porch studio. I cut up the quilt and roughly sewed it inside the coat and pants of the suit. I roughed up the coat—not that it needed much—and when I wore it over my own suit, it felt like a straitjacket, but I looked like mister five-by-five. I tried combing some of the dye into my hair, put the wart on, stuffed cotton up my nose, added some shadows under my eyes—and as a final touch stuck the steel freight hook in my belt. I put on an old cap, examined myself very carefully in the mirror.
I looked like a little tough guy on my uppers. I put another wad of cotton inside my left cheek—and that completely changed the contour of my face. I took out one of my worst shirts and a faded, loud tie, made sure to remove any laundry marks. Then I undressed and practiced stuffing the suit into two large shopping bags. Next I filled a gallon can with water. In two minutes I'd washed the dye out of my hair—had it back to my own sandy-blonde shade. I tried out the blue paint on a piece of metal—that washed off easily. I ran through the washing routine again—in two minutes flat.
I was set.
Dry my hair with my shirt, then use the shirt to wipe the paint off the car, wipe my license plates. After I'd tossed the can away, got rid of the bags with my clothes, I'd merely be another guy in an old Chevy—and no reason why I should be stopped.
But where would I dispose of the clothes? I couldn't keep them in the car—just in case I was stopped. I could burn them, but that would certainly attract attention.
Skipping over the clothing for a moment, I went to work on the Luger. Couldn't take a chance on firing an experimental shot, but I took it apart and put it together again— positive I knew how to work the deadly beauty. I washed an old pair of kid gloves, washed them carefully to get rid of any particles of clay, hung them up to dry. That would take care of fingerprints.
I put everything in a corner of the studio, even filled the can with water, so I'd be ready in the morning. I fixed supper for Elma and we sat and listened to records and all the time I was racking my brains, trying to think what the hell to do with the damn clothes.
I gave up—decided I'd chuck them into corner waste-baskets, once back in Manhattan. It was a weak spot in my plans, but I couldn't think of anything else to do... even though I kept thinking of those gold smugglers stopping in a No-Parking street. Be my luck to drop in the bags and get picked up for littering the streets!
Elma seemed in good spirits and we even played some gin. I put her in bed at ten, then dropped over to see the Alvins. Tony didn't say a thing about the gun being missing. I told them Elma was very tired and I'd just given her a pill, not to disturb us in the morning. Alice said she had some typing to do and a lot of house work, but would drop over in the afternoon.
When I returned, Elma was listening to the radio. I sat in a chair and fell asleep—to my surprise. I suppose I was so nervous I was emotionally exhausted. I awoke to hear Elma calling, “Marsh, it's midnight. Come to bed. I must have kept you up all last night.”
When I got into bed, Elma dozed off and I lay there, afraid to fall asleep. Suppose I overslept? But I was too tightly wound up to sleep anyway. At four o'clock I got her pill, some water, gently shook Elma awake. “Honey, you forgot your pill.”
“What time is it?”
“Little after one. Now...”
“That all? Feel like I've slept for hours.”
“Now take your pill and go back to sleep.”
She took the pill, asked for the bedpan, and by 4:30 she was sleeping soundly. I dressed quickly, took a slug of whisky, then carried my stuff out to the car. The village was still asleep and I didn't see a soul as I drove off.
It was a dreary, dull-cold morning, the right atmosphere for killing, I guess, but it didn't help my nerves any. I'd put the gas pedal down, then reminded myself that all I needed was to be picked up for speeding, took it slow for a few miles. I came over the 59th Street Bridge at five to six, stopped for a cup of coffee. The crummy restaurant was full of sleepy-eyed men on their way to or from work. How I wished I was one of them, and not on my way to murder!
The coffee did what the whisky failed to do, steadied me. I had a second cup and a doughnut and felt okay. As I paid the toll and drove through the Tunnel, I wondered if I should tell Mac who I was before I plugged him? Gave me a hell of a satisfaction, but if by some chance he didn't die at once—he'd tell the cops.
One thing I'd overlooked—where to shoot him. The stomach was the largest target—I might miss his head, even at short range.
In New Jersey I drove off the highway at a spot I'd picked out the day before, parked in a wooded area. Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I quickly painted one of the fenders, made some mud and dirtied my license plates. I dressed in the padded suit, put on the shirt and tie, dyed my hair, and slapped the mole on my cheek. I hung the hook from my belt, put on my cap when my hair was dry. I stuffed cotton up my right nostril, stuck a wad in the right side of my face. My mouth felt full of cotton.
Double-checking my appearance, I drove toward Newark.
I reached the store by eight and of course it was shut. I'd made my first mistake—had a half hour to wait; I felt certain I had screwed myself up. I suddenly got the jitters, told myself the smart thing would be to go home, try again tomorrow....
But I was on top of the killing now, and tomorrow might be too late. I drove around and when I came past the store again it was 8:30 and the damn place was still shut. But some of the other stores were open.
I parked the car and waited—praying I didn't get the runs now.
At a quarter to nine I got out and strolled past the store. He'd just opened, was standing behind the counter, his hat and coat still on, reading the mail.
A few people were on the street. I didn't see any cops.
I waited, my knees doing a little dance. I waited and waited... then I boldly walked in, walking like a man on his way to the chair; wanting to get things over.
Mac gave me a practiced smile as he said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
He ran his eyes over my cheap clothes and his expression said I wasn't going to be much of a customer, even to break the ice for the day.