During all of his meditation and perplexity, Mrs. Bruckner remained in blissful ignorance of the thing which was troubling him. It was true that she seemed to suspect that something was wrong, but when she pressed for an explanation, he naturally put her off. She appeared to be alarmed about his health, and was constantly urging him to go and consult a physician. He flatly refused, and told her he had never been sick in his life. Of course he knew what was the matter, and also knew very well that no physician’s prescription would cure his ailment.
His wife made more frequent trips to the little village, and even went to New York to bring back dainty viands to tempt his appetite. Apparently her sole ambition in life was to prepare a dish that would tickle his palate, and Bruckner was not without some appreciation of her kindness and concern. At times, he almost resolved to put away his idea and let the woman live. But impatience to have it over with, and to be at peace with the world, mastered him at last.
His intentions crystallized into action on the morning when she announced her intention of going over to Calder’s Point to attend a pinochle party. Bruckner never played cards and said that he would not go. However, he even urged that she indulge in this pleasant diversion.
“You stay around me too much,” he pressed her tenderly. “You’re wearing yourself out looking after my health. Stop worrying, and have a good time while you may — I mean while you’re still young and have your health,” he added, realizing that he had almost made an unfortunate slip.
“All right, I will — if you really don’t mind,” she agreed, and explained that the party would occur on the following Monday night. She proposed to take the motorboat over, leaving at seven o’clock; remain for the night, and chug-chug back again the following morning.
Bruckner was delighted. A sudden inspiration had plunged him into an ecstasy of joy. At last — like a bolt from the blue — he had hit upon a plan to do away with the woman. It was entirely possible that the thing had been done before, but it was new with Bruckner. It could not possibly savor of design and it would happen while she was away. He would be presumed to know nothing of the accident until the heartrending news should be brought to him. Then he would be stunned. Bruckner was a past master at registering grief — surprise — anguish.
But after the funeral he could spend the entire summer at the bungalow in undisturbed peace. He was glad that he could accomplish his purpose so early in the spring, for unlike the average man, his thoughts did not lightly turn to love in that entrancing period.
The thought necessitated a visit to his friend, the clockmaker to the former Czar. He made it, and outlined his needs minutely. That is, he told the clockmaker precisely the sort of box he desired — how long and how wide it should be — and explained just how its timepiece was to be set. It was to be put up in a candy box and tied neatly with ribbon. It should weigh five pounds and bear the wrapping of a smart confectioner. On the day he meant to use it, Bruckner would call for the box. It must be ready, and everything must be fixed so that he would not need to unwrap it.
Mrs. Bruckner was going away in her little sea-taxi at seven o’clock. He would arrive from the city an hour before. He planned to reach the bungalow via a hired launch, timing himself to get there a little late for supper, but in time to bid her good-bye. When he did so he would thoughtfully put the candy box in his wife’s motorboat, calling her attention to it, and laughingly instructing her not to nibble at its contents during the journey. He wished her to save it for the party and present it to her hostess.
He hoped she would obey. The trip would take her a little more than an hour. She did not mind that, since she loved the sea and could handle her craft as well as any man. But if everything went well, Mrs. Bruckner would never land at the wharf at Calder’s Point. Just about fifteen minutes before she was due to reach that settlement, the little clock would tick its final tick, and Mrs. Bruckner would proceed to eternity instead of the pinochle party.
The complete simplicity of the scheme appealed to him strongly. He would put the bomb near the gasoline tank. Its explosion would destroy that container and everyone would surmise that the blowing up of the fuel store had caused the tragedy. No one but the dead woman would know about the candy box — that is, no one but the clockmaker of the Czar. That gentleman would not be likely to speak. Secrecy was also essential to the success of his profession, and in such matters he was strictly honorable and thoroughly reliable. He need not know for whom the box was intended and for reasons of his own he would not inquire too deeply into the matter.
V
Everything went as planned. On Monday. morning Mr. Bruckner announced that it would be necessary for him to go to the city in connection with some business at his broker’s. He promised to return as speedily as he could, but told his wife not to wait for him if he should not be home by the time she intended to leave. That was camouflage, carefully planned. He always thought of little details like that in order to turn away suspicion from the minds of his victims. Besides, he wanted to establish an alibi and have it known that he was away all day.
Moreover, he always disliked to be around his victims just before the climax of his cunning. Their very confidence and trust in him always tended to annoy him. But he knew very well that he would be back on time. Otherwise, of course, he could not place the candy box in the little launch.
The clockmaker was ready for him, and the box itself was a beauty — as creditable a piece of work as Bruckner had ever seen. It did not weigh too much nor too little, and while he was assured that the watch was perfect in its mechanism and timing, it did not give forth the slightest sound.
The clockmaker beamed when he saw the look of admiration in Bruckner’s eyes and told him that he might trust the little bomb implicitly. “It is worthy to blow up a Prime Minister!” enthused its author. “Unfortunately, these days, kings are few and trade is far from good. The war seems to have caused an unreasoning dislike for explosives on the part of my very best customers.”
Bruckner condoled with the man and took his departure. He had received the professional word of the watchmaker that the bomb would not go off if he were to drop it and that it would not explode until eight-fifteen precisely. That was as Bruckner wished. The detonation would be heard just as the motorboat was entering the waters about Calder’s Point and would startle those on shore waiting for his wife. In all probability the bomb would tear her to pieces and wreck the boat completely. At least it would utterly destroy itself — and the gasoline tank. That was, of course, essential — for there must be no remaining evidence, even though no clue could possibly point to him.
But because the time schedule of the railroad had been changed without his knowledge, Bruckner did not arrive at the bungalow until almost seven o’clock. It had been a narrow escape from being too late, and the incident made him nervous; yet in a way, he thought, it was fortunate.
Mrs. Bruckner was down at the landing, dressed in her best bib and tucker, and she greeted him with a smile and an inquiry as to his health. “You look tired, my dear,” she sympathized in a motherly sort of fashion. “I really hate to go away and leave you.”
“I am tired,” Bruckner confessed. “I guess I’m not as young as I used to be and I haven’t been right pert for the last few weeks. I’ll soon be better, however,” he added cheerfully. “Just you go on and have a good time, and don’t give a thought to me.”