It’s his own fault, she thought bitterly. I can’t take anymore. If I had to put up with him for just one more night, even one more hour...!
She heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. Then, a key turned in the doorlatch, and Bill came in. He was a master machinist, a solidly built man of about forty-five. The old-fashioned gold-rimmed glasses on his pudgy nose gave him a look of owlish solemnity.
“Well,” he said, setting down his lunch bucket. “Another day, another dollar.”
Ardis grimaced. He plodded across to the lounge, stooped, and gave her a half-hearted peck on the cheek.
“Long time no see,” he said. “What we havin’ for supper?”
Ardis gritted her teeth. It shouldn’t matter, now; in a few minutes it would all be over. Yet somehow it did matter. He was as maddening to her as he had ever been.
“Bill...” She managed a seductive smile, slowly drawing the negligee apart. “How do I look, Bill?”
“Okay,” he yawned. “Got a little hole in your drawers, though. What’d you say we was havin’ for supper?”
“Slop,” she said. “Garbage. Trash salad with dirt dressing.”
“Sounds good. We got any hot water?”
Ardis sucked in her breath. She let it out again in a kind of infuriated moan. “Of course, we’ve got hot water! Don’t we always have? Well, don’t we? Why do you have to ask every night?”
“So what’s to get excited about?” he shrugged. “Well, guess I’ll go splash the chassis.”
He plodded off down the hall. Ardis heard the bathroom door open, and close. She got up, stood waiting by the telephone. The door banged open again, and Tony came racing up the hall.
He had washed off the cleaver. While he hastily tucked it back inside his shirt, Ardis dialed the operator. “Help,” she cried weakly. “Help... police... murder!”
She let the receiver drop to the floor, spoke to Tony in a whisper. “He’s dead? You’re sure of it?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure I’m sure. What do you think?”
“All right. Now, there’s just one more thing...”
“I can’t, Ardis. I don’t want to. I—”
“Hit me,” she commanded, and thrust out her chin. “Tony, I said to hit me!”
He hit her. A thousand stars blazed through her brain, and disappeared. And she crumpled silently to the floor.
...When she regained consciousness, she was lying on the lounge. A heavy-set man, a detective obviously, was seated at her side, and a white-jacketed young man with a stethoscope draped around his neck hovered nearby.
She had never felt better in her life. Even the lower part of her face, where Tony had smashed her, was surprisingly free of pain. Still, because it was what she should do, she moaned softly; spoke in a weak, hazy voice.
“Where am I?” she said. “What happened?”
“Lieutenant Powers,” the detective said. “Suppose you tell me what happened, Mrs. Clinton.”
“I... I don’t remember. I mean, well, my husband had just come home, and gone back to the bathroom. And there was a knock on the door, and I supposed it was the paper-boy or someone like that. So—”
“You opened the door and he rushed in and slugged you, right? Then what happened?”
“Well, then he rushed into the bedroom and started searching it. Yanking out the dresser drawers, and—”
“What was he searching for, Mrs. Clinton? You don’t have any considerable amount of money around do you? Or any jewelry aside from what you’re wearing? And it wasn’t your husband’s payday, was it?”
“Well, no. But—”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was crazy. All I know is what he did.”
“I see. He must have made quite a racket, seems to me. How come your husband didn’t hear it?”
“He couldn’t have. He had the shower running, and—”
She caught herself, fear constricting her throat. Lieutenant Powers grinned grimly.
“Missed a bet, huh, Mrs. Clinton?”
“I... I don’t know what you’re—”
“Come off of it! The bathtub’s dry as an oven. The shower was never turned on, and you know why it wasn’t. Because there was a guy standing inside of it.”
“B-but... but I don’t know anything. I was unconscious, and—”
“Then, how do you know what happened? How do you know this guy went into the bedroom and started tearing it apart? And how did you make that telephone call?”
“Well, I... I wasn’t completely unconscious. I sort of knew what was going on without really—”
“Now, you listen to me,” he said harshly. “You made that fake call of yours — yes, I said fake — to the operator at twenty-three minutes after five. There happened to be a prowl car right here in the neighborhood, so two minutes later, at five-twenty-five, there were cops here in your apartment. You were unconscious then, more than an hour ago. You’ve been unconscious until just now.”
Ardis’ brain whirled. Then, it cleared suddenly, and a great calm came over her.
“I don’t see quite what you’re hinting at, lieutenant. If you’re saying that I was confused, mixed up — that I must have dreamed or imagined some of the things I told you — I’ll admit it.”
“You know what I’m saying! I’m saying that no guy could have got in and out of this place, and done what this one did, in any two minutes!”
“Then the telephone operator must have been mistaken about the time,” Ardis said brightly. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Powers grunted. He said he could give her a better explanation — and he gave it to her. The right one. Ardis listened to it placidly, murmuring polite objections.
“That’s ridiculous, lieutenant. Regardless of any gossip you may have heard, I don’t know this, uh, Tony person. And I most certainly did not plot with him or anyone else to kill my husband. Why—”
“He says you did. We got a signed confession from him.”
“Have you?” But of course they didn’t have. They might have found out about Tony, but he would never have talked. “That hardly proves anything, does it?”
“Now, you listen to me, Mrs. Clinton! Maybe you think that—”
“How is my husband, anyway? I do hope he wasn’t seriously hurt.”
“How is he?” the lieutenant snarled. “How would he be after gettin’ worked over with—” He broke off, his eyes flickering. “As a matter of fact,” he said heavily, “he’s going to be all right. He was pretty badly injured, but he was able to give us a statement and—”
“I’m so glad. But why are you questioning me, then?” It was another trick. Bill had to be dead. “If he gave you a statement, then you must know that everything happened just like I said.”
She waited, looked at him quizzically. Powers scowled, his stern face wrinkling with exasperation.
“All right,” he said, at last. “All right, Mrs. Clinton. Your husband is dead. We don’t have any statement from him, and we don’t have any confession from Tony.”
“Yes?”
“But we know that you’re guilty, and you know that you are. And you’d better get it off your conscience while you still can.”
“While I still can?”
“Doc” — Powers jerked his head at the doctor. At the man, that is, who appeared to be a doctor. “Lay it on the line, doc. Tell her that her boy friend hit her a little too hard.”
The man came forward hesitantly. He said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clinton. You have a — uh — you’ve sustained a very serious injury.”
“Have I?” Ardis smiled. “I feel fine.”
“I don’t think,” the doctor said judiciously, “that that’s quite true. What you mean is that you don’t feel anything at all. You couldn’t. You see, with an injury such as yours—”