My thoughts hadn’t accomplished anything but to get me all upset by the time we arrived at Helena’s home.
Helena met me at the front door. She wore a red, off-the-shoulder hostess gown, and she looked as calm and unruffled as ever.
“Alice isn’t here,” she greeted me. “I sent her home at six because I expected Harry at seven.”
So it was Harry Cushman after all who was causing whatever the trouble was, I thought.
I asked, “He still here?”
Instead of answering, she led me into the front room. “Would you like a drink before we talk?”
“No, I wouldn’t like a drink before we talk,” I said, exasperated. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’d rather show you.”
The words raised the hair at the base of my neck. The last time she’d used similar words, she led me to her husband’s iced corpse. Now she took my hand, just as she had that previous time, and led me into the dining room. I followed numbly, almost knowing what to expect.
The light was off in the dining room, but the switch was by the door and Helena flicked it on as we entered. Then she dropped my hand and looked at me expectantly.
The dining room was large and had a fireplace on the outside wall. Against the wall closest to us was a sideboard containing a tray of bottles and glasses and a bowl of ice cubes.
Lying face down in front of the sideboard was Harry Cushman, the entire back of his head a pulpy and bloody mass from some terrific blow. His left hand clutched a glass from which the liquid had spilled, and near his outstretched right hand lay a siphon bottle on its side. Next to him lay a pair of brass fire tongs with blood on them.
The shock was not as great as you might expect, because I had anticipated something on this order from the moment Helena said she would rather “show” me. Glancing about the room, I saw the drapes were drawn so that we were safe from outside observation.
I said coldly, “It looks like you hit him from behind while he was mixing a drink. Right?”
She merely nodded.
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid he might give us away. He was in a panic when I told him Lawrence was dead.”
“Did he threaten to go to the police?”
She shook her head.
“What did he say?”
Helena shrugged slightly. “Nothing, really, except that I hadn’t any right to involve him in murder. It was the way he acted. He shook like a leaf.”
For a long time I looked at her. “Let me get this straight,” I said finally. “He didn’t threaten to expose us. He wasn’t going to the police. But just because he seemed to you like a bad security risk, you murdered him.”
She frowned slightly. “You make it sound worse than it was.”
“Then make it sound better.”
She made an impatient gesture. “What difference does it make now? It’s done. And we have to dispose of the body.”
Again she looked at me expectantly, a curious brightness in her eyes. And suddenly I realized something I had been aware of subconsciously for some time, but hadn’t brought to the front of my mind for examination.
Helena enjoyed watching me solve the problems brought on by murder.
It was a game to her, I knew with abrupt understanding, for the first time really knowing what went on under that expressionless face.
I said, “What do you mean, we have to dispose of the body? I haven’t killed anybody.”
Her lip corners curved upward in a barely discernible smile. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want me caught, Barney. You can only be executed for one murder. So there wouldn’t be any point in not telling the police about Lawrence if I got caught for this one. Including how cleverly you got rid of the body.”
With a feeling of horror I looked off into the future, seeing myself disposing of corpse after corpse as Helena repeatedly indulged her newly discovered thrill.
With only one result. Nobody gets away with murder forever.
I knew what I had to do then.
For a moment I examined her moodily. Then I shrugged. “All right, Helena. We may as well start now. Get some rags.”
Obediently she went into the kitchen, returning in a few moments with several large rags. Taking one from her, I picked up the tongs.
“Lift his head a little,” I said. “So I can spread a rag under it.”
Turning her back to me, she put both hands under the dead man’s shoulders and tugged upward. I swung the brass fire tongs down on top of her head with all my force.
It isn’t much harder to dispose of two bodies than it is to dispose of one. Not with a river as deep as the Mississippi so close by.
No Half Cure
by Robert E. Murray
The doctor felt very happy — and the fact that he’d cured Mrs. Clinton didn’t account for all of his happiness...
For one of the few times since he had become an analyst, Doctor Kleist felt something very close to euphoria. He smiled at the woman across the desk from him, savoring this moment. It was one of the good times. It was times like these that kept a man from going back to the more profitable field of surgery. A complete recovery like this one made a grim profession worth while.
“You’re certain, Doctor?” the woman asked, and there was an almost breathless pleasure in her voice.
Doctor Kleist laughed. “Yes, Mrs. Clinton, I’m quite certain.”
“And there’ll be no — recurrence?”
“No. Kleptomania has been one of my specialties for a number of years, Mrs. Clinton. I feel, in all modesty, that I know more about it than almost any other analyst to whom you might have come.” He paused. “I’ve never been more certain of a complete recovery. And, Mrs. Clinton — I’ve never been made happier by one.”
It was true, he reflected. He’d grown quite fond of Mrs. Clinton, and of her husband, and he’d always remember them warmly. Her husband had brought her to this office ten months ago, a lovely, cultured woman in her early thirties, a woman wealthy in her own right and married to one of the city’s most successful corporation lawyers — and the thief of worthless baubles from dime stores and bargain counters. On the day before her husband had brought her here, Mrs. Clinton had been arrested for stealing a thirty-nine-cent compact. The magistrate had released her in her husband’s custody and recommended Doctor Kleist.
“I’ll be forever grateful,” Mrs. Clinton said. “You don’t know how much—”
“But I do,” Doctor Kleist said. “I do indeed. I think it’s been a very rewarding experience for all of us.”
“I’m afraid I was pretty difficult to get along with, Doctor.”
He smiled. “Extremely.”
“And uncooperative.”
“That, too.”
She laughed softly and stood up. “I can scarcely wait to tell Walt. The poor darling, sometimes I think he’s endured even more with me than you have.”
“Husbands often do,” Doctor Kleist said. “Especially someone like Walt. But that’s a thing of the past now. In a case like this, an analyst likes to feel he’s been responsible for not just one, but two recoveries. It’s a very pleasant feeling, I assure you.” He came around the desk and walked with her to the door.
“It’s almost like being... well, reborn,” Mrs. Clinton said.
He nodded. “This will be the last time, of course,” he said. “The last time you’ll have to come here. But I hope you’ll drop in now and then. And bring Walt with you, if you can. I like to admire my handiwork.”
For a long moment after they had said goodbye, Doctor Kleist stood quite motionless before the door, listening to the sound of Mrs. Clinton’s high heels fading away in the direction of the elevator. Then he turned and walked slowly back to his desk and sat down in the deep leather chair.