"Can't say I do. But your voice sounds...." He stopped suddenly and
leaned forward to inspect me more closely. Recognition dawned and the
pencil dropped from his fingers. "Why ... why ... Mr. Thatcher! I ...
I...."
I am positive that it was fear I read in his eyes although I can't
imagine why he should have been afraid. We had always been the best of
friends. Maybe he felt as though he were standing face to face with
some ghost; but more likely he suddenly remembered what it was I was
supposed to have done. Murder is a terrible crime and the people who
commit it are not looked upon as human beings--no matter how much their
action might have been justified. The taking of a life--unless it be
during wartime, making the deed not only legal but noble as well--is
an action which at once destroys both friendships and hates. People
neither love nor hate murderers. They don't even feel sorry for them.
They treat them much like Murphy treated me that day in the store. Like
a freak.
I smiled disarmingly. "That's right, Tom. I guess I've changed a lot.
I'm getting on in years, you know. But can I have a word with you?"
His lips trembled a little. "But ... but I thought that.... When
did...?"
"This morning, Tom. I've finished down there."
"Come on into the back room."
I knew that he was reluctant to leave the front of the store. Maybe he
was afraid to be alone with me, I don't know. If this were happening
to me now instead of a few weeks ago, I wouldn't be at all surprised.
Seeing the crude pictures of myself in the newspapers, I suppose I _do_
look "haunted." But I vigorously deny the press insinuations that I
have a criminal face, merciless eyes and an unmistakable brutish skull
formation. The prison experts all agreed that I look somewhat weak with
my oval-shaped head and pointed chin.
The thing I wanted to find out from Murphy was if there remained anyone
in town who had known Anita. I explained to him that I was trying to
find out more about the whole affair. Murphy puckered his brows in
thought. "Let me see, George Garrett!"
"Garrett? Never heard of him."
"Oh, yes. That's right. He moved here right after...." He stopped in
embarrassment. "Say, Mr. Thatcher, I hope you know that I never wanted
to testify against you at the trial. They made me do it. I...."
"I know, Tom. You couldn't help it," I said.
"And I never really believed you did it," he went on, trying to appear
convinced. "I always thought she committed suicide. But maybe you'd
rather not talk about it, eh?"
"No, that's all right. I want to talk about it. I suppose everyone in
town thought I was guilty, didn't they? Things looked kind of bad, I'll
admit."
"No, we never believed it, Mr. Thatcher. Honest we didn't. Even
Cavender who used to be across the street said you got a raw deal.
And you know how Cavender was. Even Leo Carpenter said you were
innocent...."
"Carpenter?" I echoed. "When did you see him? I thought he went to
Vienna."
"Oh, he was at the trial. Didn't you know?"
"No," I muttered. "I didn't."
"Well, maybe he was only there that one day. He left for abroad shortly
after. He's writing books now, you know. Lives in New York six months a
year and in Vienna the rest of the time. Doctor Fraser--you don't know
him--says that his surgical data is very valuable."
"I heard he was writing books," I said.
"Funny you didn't know he was at the trial. I saw him right after they
brought in the verdict."
To this day, I don't know why I pursued the subject. Something drove
me on--a curiosity maybe, a desire to discover just what attitude a
man would take whose former sweetheart has been allegedly slain by his
rival. "What did Leo have to say?"
"He looked angry as the devil. He was cursing, as I remember. I heard
him say to someone who was with him that he was positive they were
convicting an innocent man."
"He said that?" I asked in disbelief. Although the doctor and I had
never been anything but friendly to one another, it seemed strange
that he should adopt that attitude after I had stolen his girl. There
was something fishy about it.
"Is that all?"
Murphy scratched his head. "Yes, I guess so. The fellow who was with
him tried to comfort him, I recollect. He said that you'd never see the
inside of a jail; that your lawyer was sure to appeal and the decision
would be reversed. The man said, 'Of course, if they find the body ...
in that case it might be different.' Leo was getting into his car then.
He said something that sounded like: 'They'll never find the body'
and drove off, leaving the man standing there. That's all I know Mr.
Thatcher."
"Thanks a lot."
"Can I do anything more for you? You know that if I can be of some...."
"No, I guess that's about all. Goodbye, Tom."
"Going to be around town again?"
"No, I guess not. But who knows?" We walked back into the store proper.
I shook hands with Murphy and noticed that his hand was cold and his
grip limp.
Before I left Ithaca on the evening train for New York, I strolled
around to my little house ... or what used to be my house. From a
distance it still looked the same as I had left it; but when I reached
the gate to the front yard I felt my heart sink. There was a noticeable
sag to the roof as though the supporting beams had been allowed to
rot away. The paint on both the picket fence and on the house itself
had peeled off, leaving bare, ugly patches. And it was unoccupied. A
chipped enamel sign informed the passerby that the property was for
sale or rent and that information regarding it could be obtained by
telephoning the Mervin Real Estate Company.
It had been my thought to enter the place, asking permission of the
owner in the event that someone was living in it. I would have liked
to explore the house in hopes of stirring from my fading memory some
dormant fact which had escaped notice. Then too, I would have welcomed
an hour in the garden down by the lake.
But looking at it a moment longer, I suddenly felt sick. My store, like
some fickle child, no longer knew its parent. My house, my wife, my
friends were all gone, breaking the last connecting link with the town
of my birth.
I withdrew the hand I had reached out to unfasten the gate. I turned
back toward the station.
* * * * *
I will not mention where I got the gun because the pawnbroker who sold
it to me was breaking the law and I don't want anyone to get into
trouble on my account. My purpose in purchasing the pistol, I need
hardly say, was to take yet one more life: my own.
There are some of you who hold that suicide takes a great deal of
courage and some to whom it appears a very cowardly act. I am not in a
position to argue the point. I merely tell you that I no longer cared
to live and the sooner I ceased living the better I would like it.
But I did not sit down and brood like some twentieth century Hamlet. I
did not over-dramatize my plight. I only realized that I was unhappy,
broke, without friends or family, and with nothing whatever to look
forward to but continued mental depression. I had read that ex-convicts
find it extremely difficult to find positions and, although I was
a registered pharmacist, I had no references to show a prospective
employer.
So what else was there for me to do?
If I'd been young, I would no doubt have tried to hold on. When I
was twenty, life was precious and I thoroughly enjoyed being alive.
But remember that upon my release from prison I had just passed my
forty-sixth birthday. You will recall the day, for that was the night
of the Hindenburg disaster.
I had given considerable thought to the subject of a suitable agent
which would bring about my end. I did not want to suffer if I could
possibly avoid it. I suppose that I could easily have managed to obtain
some sort of poison but I ruled this out immediately. Only a physician
or an apothecary can appreciate how terrible a death by poison can
be. Of course there are any number of mythical concoctions which the
writers of detective stories profess will result in instantaneous
death. Well, maybe I'm wrong, but if such poisons exist or at least
are stocked in drugstores, I have never handled any. The poisonous
substances I have come into contact with in my work all entail a
minimum of several minutes of intense pain while the drug stops the
heart or eats away the organs of the body.
So I chose a gun.
I decided this while sitting in my tiny hotel room, just off Times
Square. Looking around at the bare, cracked walls, the peeling plaster
and the single, dirty window, it struck me that this was as fitting
a room for a suicide as one would be able to find. Still, I would
be unable to use it. Since I would, of necessity, have to procure a
pistol, I would hardly have enough money left to stay there another
night. I would have to die in the park, or in some alleyway.
It was while I sat in that room, pondering the problem of where I might
be able to get hold of a gun, that someone knocked on my door. I opened
it and a girl stepped in, closing the door behind her. I gaped at her.
"Hello," she smiled.
"Hello," I answered her. "You must have the wrong room." I saw that she
was well dressed and with a supple figure; her face, while not pretty,
was pleasant and carefully made-up. "This is Room 264, you know."
"I know," she laughed, revealing white, though slightly crooked teeth.
"Well? Aren't you going to ask me to come in?"
"You're in already," I observed. Then, for the first time in months, I
felt the need of her--the need of any woman. Usually, in prison, this
would sweep over me only once in a great while. It would last less than
a week and then it would pass on, leaving me enervated. But now my
fingers yearned for the feel of her and my knees grew unsteady. "Will
you smoke a cigarette?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
She accepted one. My hand shook a little as I held the match. Puffing
away, she sat down on the bed, close to my chair. I could smell her
perfume and the faint female odor of her clothes. My head swam.
Of course I knew that she was a prostitute. Her presence in my room
was merely an effort to solicit trade. But she was a woman. Mentally,
I counted up my money. No, there would not be enough for this. The
remaining few dollars would barely buy me a gun. I balanced the gun
against the woman. I chose the gun.
"I like you," she murmured after a moment of silence. "But that, as
Shakespeare says, is not the question. Do you like me?"
"I'm ... I'm broke," I stammered.
Her face fell a little. "Well, I didn't expect to find Rockefeller in
here, you know. I don't ask much...."
"I'm sorry. I haven't a penny to spare. I won't have this room
tomorrow," I confessed.
The girl rose from the bed abruptly and started for the door. In
desperation, I got to it first and put my back to it. "Please don't
go," I begged. "If you only knew how much I want you to stay!"
"Sorry, buddy. I'm no charity worker. You've got to lay it on the line."
"Listen," I whispered hoarsely. "Don't you see? I haven't had ...
haven't had a woman in eighteen years!"
She looked at me skeptically for a second; then a curiosity came into
her eyes. "What were you, mister?" she asked. "Priest, prisoner or
pauper?"