Her husband was delighted, for as a rule she did not concern herself much with others, and he complimented her on her orderliness and system. She felt some remorse to find him so easy to trick, so attentive to her every wish. But she scorned him for his foolishness, for his stupid lack of instinct; for everything he said or did seemed a new precaution to give her trouble later.
Everything seemed, to outsiders, to originate with him, he appeared to plan for her! With the servants on vacation, with him presumably living in a hotel, he would not be missed for days. His superiors, his employees would think that he had decided to go with her at the last minute. She heard him speak to the office on the telephone, hinting that he was tempted to escort her for a while.
On the morning set for her departure, the apartment was in order; tissue papers shrouded the lamps, the various trinkets, the picture frames. The trunks lined in the hall were full, and the house linen had not been packed! But Madame Chertier had ordered a new trunk, quite large, especially for it. When it was delivered, her husband admired it greatly—said it was handsome, solid, an excellent buy. For the first time, Madame Chertier felt some embarrassment. The servants were ready to go, and she took the occasion to break off his extravagant praise of the trunk she had bought for his coffin. She paid maid and cook, thanked them for their good wishes. Mr. Chertier followed them downstairs, saying that he had to purchase tobacco.
Left alone in the silent, empty apartment, Madame Chertier felt numb and frightened. She did not for a moment think of giving up her plans, but the deed she had to perform perturbed her. In her small handbag, a traveling-clock was ticking impatiently, time was passing, he would return—and she would have to act!
She tested the locks of the massive trunk. They held well, and the lid closed tight. She went through her pocketbook, saw that she had her railroad ticket, her money, a checkbook, smellingsalts. She was about to look once more at the revolver she had concealed in a drawer. She had loaded it very carefully, placed it in readiness, in her boudoir.
She turned as she heard her husband enter. And she answered his question: “Where are you?” in a steady voice. This was the room she had intended for the final episode. There was a thick tarpaulin on the floor—which had been placed there, the servants knew, to keep the metal corners of the trunks from scratching the floor. In the dresser drawer below that in which she had put the gun, she had ropes. And she had asked for waterproof tarpaulin, waterproof, hence bloodproof.
When her husband entered, she faced him, her back to the dresser. He came toward her, stood in the center of the tarpaulin. The time had come, she must reach for the gun and shoot him. Involuntarily, her eyes swept the boudoir.
“I’m not forgetting anything?” she asked to cover her nervousness. She did not expect an answer, her trembling hand was in the open drawer, groping for the revolver.
He smiled.
“What about this?” he said, holding out the gun she sought.
“That’s right, I was forgetting that,” she stammered.
Mr. Chertier laughed loudly.
“The most important thing!”
She started. She was terrified by the change in his expression. His eyes were hard as steel, and suddenly, he appeared far from stupid, a cool, resolute man. He drew her on the tarpaulin, pressed the gun’s muzzle on her forehead, between her eyes.
He fired.
Madame Chertier slumped to the tarpaulin, which was stained with blood. The husband had stepped back calmly, to allow her to drop.
Then he gathered the corpse in the tarpaulin, took the ropes from the drawer, fastened the whole into a bundle, with unshaken, expert fingers. This done, he carried her to the trunk, dropped her inside, packed the loose linen tightly to prevent shaking. Then he opened the pocketbook, took out ticket, money, checkbook and smelling-salts, tossed the empty bag with the body. After which he slammed the lid down, locked the trunk.
The bell rang, he opend the door to the janitor and the taxi chauffeur, who carried the baggage down to the waiting cab. As he saw the big trunk swaying on the porter’s shoulders, Mr. Chertier sighed and thought:
“She had thought of everything!”
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Bibliographical Note
Thirty Hours with a Corpse and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol, first published by Dover Publications, Inc., in 2016, is a new anthology of thirtynine stories reprinted from standard sources. A new Introduction has been specially prepared for the present edition.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Level, Maurice, 1875–
[Short stories. English]
Thirty hours with a corpse, and other tales of the Grand Guignol / Maurice Level, introduced and edited by S. T. Joshi.
p. cm. — (Dover horror classics)
eISBN-13: 978-0-486-81099-7
1. Horror tales, French. 2. Level, Maurice, 1875– — Translations into English I. Joshi, S. T., 1958– editor. II. Title.
PQ2623.E9A2 2016
843’.912—dc23
2015031477
Manufactured in the United States by RR Donnelley
80232901 2016