But he knew now that he wanted to kill him. And he knew exactly how he would do it.
Miles Ramey went to work on his secret project slowly and methodically. There was an impression to be reinforced in the popular mind. Everybody in Minochee knew, of course, about Miles’ tender feelings and his utter inability to cope with a display of gore or even to discuss gory subjects. But now it became important that their memories be refreshed about the existence of this fact. So that they could call it to mind at the proper time. And bear witness...
In this project luck favored him with several opportunities. And he didn’t have to act or pretend.
First there was the lecture on civil defense and first-aid at the town hall. If he had had anything less than murder in mind, Miles would never have attended. But now he professed concern and patriotism. He had to leave in the middle of the lecture, white-faced, down the center aisle for everyone to see. Then he was sick on the town hall steps.
A few days later Mr. Cromwell the painter fell off his scaffolding and broke an arm. Miles had never run morbidly to accident scenes, but he ran to this one. Friendly hands had to escort him to a shady spot under a tree and make him lie prone to keep him conscious.
And finally came the best chance of all. An outbreak of typhoid made it necessary for the whole town of Minochee to be innoculated against the fever. Miles Ramey stood in line with the others, but he fainted before his own turn came. The incident was noted and commented upon by quite a few people.
So it was time to begin.
Miles would need the proper alibi, of course. But he had provided for that. He lived with his sister Stella and her husband Robert. Relatives would be prejudiced in one’s favor naturally. But that was all right. An airtight, unshakable alibi might look too planned.
Miles chose a night when Robert and Stella were staying home. He ate dinner with them in quite normal fashion, watched a television program with them, even listened to Robert discuss his favorite topic, trout fishing, for a while. But about nine-thirty he said he was tired, retreated to his second-floor bedroom, and locked the door. He always did that.
Once alone, he didn’t hesitate, for he’d made up his mind long ago. He undressed, but not for pajamas and bed. He put on his swimming trunks. Then he brought out of the closet the necessary items he had accumulated for tonight’s work — his tools, he called them.
There was the old pair of sneakers, three sizes too large for him. He’d found them on a trash heap, because he hadn’t dared to arouse curiosity by going into a store and buying shoes so obviously unsuited for wearing. Then there were the three articles that he had purchased in stores, but each at a different store, and none in Minochee. A pair of cotton work gloves, a metal cash box with a key, and a bottle of smelling salts.
He put the bottle, the shoes, and the gloves all inside the metal box for convenience in carrying. Then he turned out the lights, opened the window quietly, and climbed out on the roof. The roof sloped to a low point over the attached garage. The cash box landed on the ground with a soft thud. Miles followed. It was a jarring fall, but he managed it without injury.
He gathered up the box and picked his way in the moonless darkness toward the lake. The rowboat, he knew, would be tied up at Robert’s dock, and Robert wouldn’t be using it or come looking for it at this time of night, so it would never be missed. Miles entered the boat slowly and stealthily, untied it, and pushed silently away from the dock.
Uncle David’s cottage where he lived completely alone was around the little point, half a mile by water, a bit more than half that distance by land. Miles had never in his life rowed over to see Uncle David. Neither, then, would anybody ever expect him to row over to murder Uncle David. That fact was but one advantage of Miles’ plan. But the rowboat was necessary besides. A lot of extra clothing would be a handicap on this expedition. The swimming trunks would be sufficient attire in a rowboat, but hardly if he met anyone on the footpath or the road. And as a matter of fact, he didn’t want to meet anyone.
He was content to proceed slowly, so as not to make any noise with the oars. He was sure no one noticed his passage. Lights were burning in cottages all along the shoreline, but the occupants were staying indoors. From somewhere far off in the night, an outboard motor buzzed, down the lake. No other boats were in the immediate vicinity, for the night was really too cool for pleasant boating.
A light in Uncle David’s kitchen finally shone out as a beacon for Miles. His boat glided silently into Uncle David’s dock, and he tied it there. Then he divested himself of the swimming trunks, and put on the sneakers and gloves. He left the trunks and the metal box in the bottom of the boat, but he took the smelling salts with him as he climbed out.
He approached the house cautiously but not timidly. On the way he made a point of leaving the footprints of his oversized shoes in several places where there was soft earth, such as among Uncle David’s freshly cultivated roses. He also stopped at the little tool shed where Uncle David kept an axe for cutting firewood. He took the axe.
He paused outside the kitchen window to locate Uncle David. He saw the old man, alone as always, sitting at the kitchen table. He had something that looked like garden catalogues spread out on the table in front of him, and he was quite engrossed in them. He wasn’t aware of any other presence until Miles burst through the unlocked door.
Then he jumped up at the noise, only surprised at first. But the surprise quickly changed to awe and wonder, and finally to the cantankerous anger so habitual with him.
“What in thunder are you doing?” he wanted to know.
Certainly he had a right to ask the question at least. His nephew presented a strange spectacle indeed, naked except for the white gloves and the old, obviously huge sneakers, and with an axe in his hand.
But Uncle David didn’t wait for an answer. “I knew you were crazy all the time,” he stormed. “What do you think you’re doing in that get-up? Don’t you wear clothes any more?”
He didn’t seem to be aware at all of the lethal intentions of his visitor. Perhaps he considered the axe to be only a part of the costume, or the lack of costume. And he certainly seemed to have misread the gleam in his nephew’s eyes.
“Now you get home,” Uncle David railed on, “before I call Stella or the police.” He was thinking of calling the police, of course, on a matter of indecent exposure, not of murder.
Miles didn’t pause to argue or explain. He advanced three steps, which was the distance separating them. Uncle David still didn’t seem to understand, because he still wasn’t afraid. Which made everything much simpler. Miles lifted the axe, aimed it at Uncle David’s head, and swung. The target remained immobile, and that even allowed Miles to close his eyes at the last moment. He only heard the impact therefore, without seeing it.
But the sound, like the sounds one can hear in a butcher shop, was enough for Miles’ imagination. His mind instantly conjured pictures worse than any reality. A river of blood seemed to gush at him, suffocating, drowning him. The floor under his feet began to gyrate crazily. The thought of fainting here, in Uncle David’s gore, spurred his hand working at the top of the smelling salts bottle. And then, just in time, the strong ammonia scent rushed into his nostrils.
His head was light and empty, his stomach churning, but he was still conscious. He kept his eyes closed a bit longer, and took further sniffs from the bottle, till the odor was painful inside his nostrils. And he listened for further sounds. There were none.
Only then, after perhaps a full minute of silence, did he dare to look. He had to look. There was still work to be done.