Only Wallace knew that three weeks later a massive heart attack would take the life of his massive wife.
The funeral was small and touching.
".
. . A woman dearly loved . . ." Wallace heard the minister say, as the mourners bowed their heads for the eulogy. There had been no trouble or suspicion; the same doctor who had conducted Hilda's examination had also signed the death certificate.
As Wallace stood there foremost among the knot of mourners and listened to the women's stifled sobs he actu
ally felt a bit sorry for Hilda, wondering for the first time if perhaps he should simply have asked for a divorce. But no, he thought, she would have caused all the trouble possible and milked him dry of everything the courts would allow. And even if she wouldn't have contested the divorce, the effect on his business career would have been disastrous.
With his head still bowed Wallace unobtrusively leaned forward and peered down to make sure the grave was deep enough.
Like a light gone from our lives . . ." the minister was saying.
Hilda's bridge club sobbed louder.
".
. . Sadly missed by us all . . ."
Wallace fought back a yawn.
"Amen."
It was only the morning after the funeral when the knock came on Wallace's door. Wallace tied the cord on his red terrycloth robe and crossed the living room. As he opened the door he heard a familiar sharp laugh, and there was Horace Mudd, standing in the hall with his hands on his hips, looking admiringly at the black funeral wreath that hung on the door. Wallace recovered from his surprise. "Mr. Mudd," he said and stepped back, "come in."
"I dropped by to offer my condolences," Mudd said as he shuffled awkwardly past Wallace.
"For my wife's death, you mean?" Wallace closed the door. "In a manner of speaking."
Something very unpleasant stirred in the back of Wallace's mind.
Mudd sat in the chair that had been Hilda's favorite. "I also came by to tell you about the deletion."
"Deletion?"
"Yes," Mudd said, "you see, my father made one major change in all of the volumes. He eliminated that piece of advice most often quoted by murderers."
"Which is?"
"Always murder alone, Mr. Deerborne. Never confide â in anyone."
"But I did do it alone," Wallace said uneasily.
Mudd smiled and shook his head. "You confided in me, Mr. Deerborne."
Dizzily, Wallace sat down on the sofa.
"There is one thing you're forgetting," he said in a high voice. "Because I did confide in you, you're my accomplice. You're equally guilty in the eyes of the law."
Mudd looked amused. "Law?" He started to laugh and coughed violently, dabbing at his lips with a dirty white handkerchief. "Why, there's nothing against the law in renting you a book, Mr. Deerborne. How was I to know you'd take it seriously? If everyone did that, mystery novels and authoritative books on crime would have to be taken off the market. And I don't recall giving you a receipt for the five hundred dollars."
Wallace stared intently at the floor.
"I know what's going through your mind, Mr. Deerborne, but you'll find that it would be disastrous for you to harm me. There are records that would be revealed in the event of my death. Why, one of my ex-clients recently paid all my hospital bills for a major operation, so concerned was he with my survival." Mudd smiled his seamed and crooked smile. "No, Mr. Deerborne, you don't want me to die; you want just the opposite." He drummed his thin fingers on the arm of Hilda's chair. "Still, while I'm alive, there's always the possibility of anonymous telephone calls to the police, the exhumation of your dear wife's body . . ."
Wallace suddenly felt very weak. "Blackmail," he said in a hoarse, trapped voice.
"Business, Mr. Deerborne." Mudd stood with great effort and moved slowly toward the door. He turned before leaving. "Like any good business, I'll bill you for the remainder of the payment on the book."
"At the end of the month, I suppose," Wallace said miserably.
"At the end of every month, Mr. Deerborne." Mudd folded the stained handkerchief carefully and tucked it into his pocket. "For as long as we live."
A
ngela lay quite still. I watched her sleep. About her blonde-streaked locks wound the black lace contraption that was supposed to protect her hairdo as she slept. An elastic chin strap was relentlessly working to keep her double chin from growing. Dark eyeshades covered the upper part of her face to keep the morning sun from waking her prematurely. I knew that beneath the special Thermo-weave blanket was an intricately designed sleeping bra the purpose of which was to preserve her bosomy uplift. At the foot of the bed a wire framework beneath the covers lifted them tentlike eighteen inches above the mattress to prevent them from causing pressure on the toes that would lead to ingrown toenails and later serious foot problems. Lying open across Angela's softly heaving chest was the latest Happy House mail-order catalog, its colorful pages riffling gentle in the soft breeze from the air-conditioning vent near the bed.
Angela was a mail-order maniac. Almost every day some item featured in one of dozens of catalogs we regularly received would find its way into our mailbox or onto our front porch, while the checking account struggled for survival.
I had talked to her, explained to her, argued violently with her. What was the use? Like many other women, her mail-order addiction was too strong for her. The miniature watermelon plants, the inflatable picnic plates, the battery-heated ice cream scoops and countless similar mail-order items continued to pour into our household. Angela was incurable, and I was slowly being driven mad.
The electric scent dispenser that emitted a pleasant-smelling antiseptic spray every fifteen minutes hissed at me from my dresser as I bent down to lift the Happy House catalog from Angela's sleeping form. Through some cross-up in the mail due to our having moved three times during the past two and a half years, this Happy House catalog that had arrived two weeks ago was the only one we'd received during that time.
I don't know if you've ever seen what happens when you haven't ordered from one of these catalogs for a long time, but they become quite adamant that you should continue to buy from them. This one contained a particularly strong though typical warning printed on the back cover with our family name typed in to make it seem more personal â or more ominous.
"Final warning:"
it was very officially headed.
"It comes to our attention
,
Mr. and Mrs. Crane,
that you haven't ordered from our catalog for the past two years. This is to warn you that we must have an order for at least five dollars from the Crane family NOW in order to maintain your account. Remember, Mr. and Mrs. Crane, this is your last chance â it's up to you!"
As I was lifting the catalog lightly, the doorbell rang, and I lowered the open pages again onto Angela and crossed the room to climb into my pants. Almost midnight, I noticed with a glance at the imported family-crest clock as I tried to locate my slippers. I didn't know who could be on the porch, but I hoped they'd refrain from punching the doorbell again before I could reach the door. Even through her special sleep-aid earplugs the sound of the loud bell might wake Angela. As I straightened and buckled my belt I almost struck my head on the portable TV aerial attachment that allowed clear, free reception in any weather, then I hurried from the bedroom and down the hall to the front door, my slipper soles padding noisily across the carpet. Just as I reached the foyer the bell clanged again, and I angrily flipped the night latch and opened the door.
They were in uniform. One of them carried a flashlight that he shone onto a little note pad as if double-checking the address.
"Mr. Harold Crane?" the tall one asked. He was trim and broad-shouldered, with clean, anonymous features and short-cropped hair. His partner with the flashlight was much shorter, heavyset, with a blank moon face and long blond hair that stuck out from beneath his high-peaked black uniform cap. Their uniforms were completely black; they wore gloves and black leather jackets with insignia on the shoulders.
"I'm he," I said, rubbing my eyes. I'd been sleeping on the sofa before going into the bedroom and my mind was still sluggish.
"Come with us, please," the taller man said in a clipped, pleasant voice.
In the moonlight I saw the initials P.D. on the short man's shoulder patch. "Are you police . . . ? Come with you . . ."
Both men took me gently by the upper arms, and I was led toward a small, dark-colored van parked at the curb in front of my lawn.
"Just cooperate, please," the round-faced blond one said, lagging behind for a moment to close the front door softly behind us.
"Now, wait a minute . . . !" But the van doors were open, and I was pushed gently inside. The two men climbed in behind me and closed the doors. The tall one tapped on a partition with his gloved knuckles and the van pulled away.
"I'm not even dressed," I objected. I was wearing only my pants, slippers and pajama top.
Neither man answered or even looked directly at me, only sat on either side of me on the low bench as the van sped through the dark streets.
We drove for almost an hour, and gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the van. I studied the uniform of the man on my left. He wore two shoulder patches on his black leather jacket, one of them a red circle with the yellow P.D. initials that I'd noticed earlier, and below the circle a blue triangular patch containing a white cloud and the initials H.H. I studied the black square-toed boots, the brass studwork designs on their glossy outer sides. I didn't have to be told that the P.D. on the patches didn't stand for "Police Department" as had originally run through my sleep-filled mind. I wasn't sleepy now.
"A kidnapping?" I asked incredulously. "You must have the wrong victim."
No answer.
"You'll find out," I said. "It's a mistake . . ."
"No mistake, Mr. Crane," the tall one said without looking at me.
The van suddenly braked to a smooth halt.
I could hear the crunching of footsteps on gravel as the driver got out and walked to the rear of the van. The van was opened and I was led quickly into what looked like a motel room, though in the darkness it was hard to tell. The closing of the room's door cut short the high trilling of crickets. The van driver, whose features I had never clearly seen, stayed outside.
The inside of the room was neat and impersonal, clean and modern with a small kitchenette. I was led to the kitchenette table, and both men forced me down into a chair. The tall one sat opposite me across the small table while the pudgy blond one remained standing uncomfortably close to
me.
"I'm Walter," the tall man said. "My partner's name is Martin."
"And you're not police," I said, braving it out despite my fear. "Just who the hell are you?"
"Police . . . ?" Walter arched an eyebrow quizzically at me from across the table. "Oh, yes, the P.D. on our shoulder patches. That stands for 'Persuasion Department,' Mr. Crane. We're from Happy House."
"Happy House? The mail-order company?"
Walter nodded with a smile. There would have been a suavity about him but for the muscularity that lurked beneath the shoulders of his leather uniform jacket. "We're one of the biggest in the country."
"In the world," Martin corrected beside me.
"This is absurd!" I said with a nervous laugh that sounded forced.
Martin pulled a large suitcase from beneath the table and opened it on the floor.
"Our records show it's been almost two years since your last order, Mr. Crane," Walter said solemnly.
"Actually it's my wife . . ."
Walter raised a large, silencing hand. "Didn't you receive our final warning notice?"
"Warning . . . ?"
"Concerning the infrequency of your orders."
"He knows what you're talking about," Martin said impatiently.
"Yes," Walter agreed, "I think he does. What's been the problem, Mr. Crane?"
"No problem, really . . ."
"But a problem to Happy House, Mr. Crane," Walter politely pointed out. "You see, our object is for our organization and our customers to be happy with our merchandise. And if we don't sell to our customers that's not possible, is it?"
"Put that way, no . . ."
"Put simply," Walter said, "since Happy House has to make a profit through volume to be able to keep on offering quality merchandise at bargain prices, in a way each customer's happiness is directly related to each other customer's continuing willingness to order from us."
"In a sense, I suppose that's true . . ."
"Here, Mr. Crane." Walter placed a long sheet of finely typed white paper on the table before me.