“That’s nice,” she said.
On September fourth he reminded her of her promise to wear the necklace on his birthday.
“I won’t forget,” she said.
Nevertheless he reminded her again the next day, and every day thereafter.
The following Tuesday he found a broken piano leg in a deserted lot on the next street. He hefted the thick, heavy piece of lumber. Teak, he decided. It was strong, and the narrower turning at the base gave him an excellent grip. Perfect, he told himself. Not only a good weapon, but it obviated the risk of his being identified as the man who’d bought a mallet of the kind and type matching the splinters extracted from the dead woman’s skull.
He liked the phrase and, applying it to Grace and thinking of her as the dead woman, he pitied her and began almost to like her. Then he thought of Myra, and his determination hardened. He wanted Myra and he wanted Grace’s money, and he was going to have them both.
On the morning of his birthday Grace kissed him. He told her to get the necklace from the vault and he offered to go with her, but she refused.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll have it.”
She came home at noon and showed him the necklace.
“Better give it to me,” he said. “I’m afraid you might lose it.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not this. Never.”
In the afternoon he went for a ride. He was excited and he kept telling himself that everything would go according to schedule. The only element over which he had no control was Toosh’s arrival. It Toosh failed, then Alec would have the somewhat risky job of disposing of the necklace. Otherwise, he was home free. He’d play the part of the distraught husband and he’d have nothing to tell the police except that he’d found his wife dead and the necklace gone. He’d state that he’d been in his studio all evening, which would be true. There would be no complications and no points on which he could be tripped up.
It was the servants’ night off and they’d tell the police that Mrs. Condon often forgot to close the front door. They’d say that Mr. and Mrs. Condon got along well and never quarreled. Friends would corroborate the statement. The police would also find out that Grace had taken her necklace from the vault specifically for her husband’s birthday. Alec would say she’d showed it to him at lunch, and that he’d been touched by her act.
The police might or might not dig up his affair with Myra. If they did, it would be obvious that he and Myra had broken up some time ago. If they went so far as to question her, he was reasonably certain that she’d cover up.
“Alec Condon?” she’d say. “I haven’t seen him in months, and what’s more, I don’t want to. After the way he threw me over, we’re finished.”
Around six that evening he garaged the car and entered the house via the front door. He unlatched it and called upstairs.
“Grace?”
“Oh, Alec!” she said. “Come up, won’t you?”
“I thought I’d go over to the studio for a little while.”
She came to the head of the stairs. “Now? On your birthday? When I’m wearing my necklace just for you? Please — at least come up and look.”
“Sure,” he said amiably, and he climbed the staircase.
She was wearing a long, velvet gown, and he blinked. “You’re all dressed up.”
“I have to be, when I wear this,” she said, touching the necklace. “Isn’t it nice?”
“Very.”
“I thought we might go out to dinner. Would you like to?”
He hesitated before answering. In order to give himself plenty of time to bum the weapon and possibly some other articles along with it, he’d counted on not “discovering” the body until midnight. Furthermore, he’d visualized it as being found in a dressing gown and he’d expected to say that she’d retired early, while he’d gone over to his studio. But now, seeing the way she was dressed, he saw that he’d have to change the original plan and advance his time schedule.
So be it, he thought. He’d manage.
“Dinner out will be fine,” he said. “I’ll make a reservation.”
“I already did,” she said. “Nine o’clock, at the Hermitage.”
Again he made his calculations. Kill her at a quarter of eight, then wait until eight for Toosh to arrive. Then over to the studio in order to clean up and dispose of the weapon. He’d discover the body at eight-thirty and call the police at once. Nothing wrong with that, provided Toosh came promptly. But could Alec rely on that? He decided he had to.
“You think of everything,” he said to Grace, with excessive politeness. “I’d better shower and get dressed.”
“That will be nice,” she said.
He agreed.
At seven-fifteen he took the teak piano leg from his closet. Barefoot, he tiptoed down the back stairs and, walking softly, he entered the big living room. He placed the weapon next to the couch, where it would be out of sight. Then, still moving stealthily, he returned to the rear stairs and went up to his room. At seven-thirty he emerged again, but noisily, whistling raucously.
“Grace?” he called out. “Ready?”
“But it’s so early. We can’t go yet.”
“I know. Let’s sit down in the living room and wait. I like it there.”
“That would be nice,” she said.
The living room, ample enough to seat a dozen guests comfortably, was in semi-darkness. The street lamp, casting a series of beams through three long windows, struck the coffee table, the near end of the couch and the mahogany secretary-desk. Grace started to switch on the lights, but he stopped her.
“No. Wait a minute.”
She obeyed, but in the dim light, her expression seemed strangely hesitant. “Why, Alec? Why?”
“Come here,” he said.
She advanced towards him, not quite smiling, sensing that he wanted something unusual from her and hoping it would be pleasant.
“Turn around a moment,” he said. “Your dress — isn’t it tom?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, “but—”
When her back was to him, he struck. She fell with scarcely a sound, and he clubbed her again, twice, until he was certain she was dead. Then he took the gloves from his pocket and leaned down to unfasten the necklace, but the gloves were too thick and too awkward for him to manipulate the delicate catch.
He took them off and noticed the blood on them. They’d have to be burnt, along with the piano leg. Luckily it was a cool evening, lighting a fire in his studio wouldn’t look suspicious, and if later on the police decided to take the fire apart and sift the remains, the gloves would be indistinguishable ashes and the weapon would be just one more charred log. He had nothing to worry about.
Nevertheless his hands shook. The light was bad and he couldn’t see how the catch worked. Suddenly, in a flash of rage, he ripped at the necklace and tore it off, scratching her skin and jerking up her head. It thumped down, and he staggered back.
He was breathing heavily and he began talking to himself. “Take it easy. Nothing to worry about. Everything is like she’d want it to be — real nice!”
At the word, he let out a guffaw of laughter, but he cut himself off at once. Still, the momentary outburst steadied him, and he went about the rest of his business as unemotionally as if it was a daily chore. Walk over to the coffee table and place the necklace on the edge, squarely in the light. Return to the couch and move it, so that the body will be screened off. Then sit down and wait.
It was twenty of eight. What do you do while you sit near the body of your wife and wait for a thief to come in and help himself to a piece of jewelry?
You take a memo pad from the desk and start to write down every item that remains to be done. But, before you put down the first word, you warn yourself not to. You have to dispose of the sheet with the writing on it, so what good is the memo? And besides, you have to worry about the pencil impression left on the second sheet. So you replace the pad and you check the items mentally, one by one. Then you look at your watch. Five minutes have gone by.