The cop watched him drive away and wondered if he should
have taken him into the police station. But if you started taking
in everyone who thought about suicide, you'd never stop. He
went back towards the other side of the bridge. When he reached
it, he took out his note-book and wrote down the name, Edward
Wright. So he would remember what the man meant, he added,
Big Eyebrows, Wife Dead, Thought About Jumping.
The psychiatrist stroked his pointed beard and looked at the
patient.
' .. . no longer worth living,' the man was saying. 'I almost
killed myself the night before last. I almost jumped from the
Morrissey Bridge.'
'And?'
'A policeman came along. I wouldn't have jumped anyway.'
'Why not?'
'I don't know.'
The endless talk of patient and doctor went on. Sometimes
the doctor went through a whole hour without thinking at all,
making automatic replies but not really hearing a word that was
said to him. I wonder, he thought, whether I do these people
any good at all. Perhaps they only want to talk, and need a
listener.
He listened next to a dream. Almost all his patients told him
their dreams, which annoyed the psychiatrist, who never
remembered having a dream of his own. He listened to this
dream, glancing now and then at his watch and wishing the hour
would end. The dream, he knew, indicated a decreasing wish to
live, a development of the death wish, and a desire for suicide
that was prevented only by fear. But for how long?
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American Crime Stories
Another dream. The psychiatrist closed his eyes and stopped
listening. Five more minutes, he told himself, and then this fool
would leave.
The doctor looked at the man, saw the heavy eyebrows, the
expression of guilt and fear. 'I have to have my stomach pumped,
Doctor,' the man said. 'Can you do it here or do we have to go
to a hospital?'
'What's the matter with you?'
'Pills.'
'Sleeping pills? How many did you take?'
'Twenty,' said the man.
'Ten can kill you,' said the doctor. 'How long ago did you
take them?'
'Half an hour. No, maybe twenty minutes.'
'And then you decided not to act like a fool, yes? Twenty
minutes. Why wait this long?'
'I tried to make myself sick.'
'Couldn't do it? Well, we'll try the stomach pump,' the doctor
said.
It was very unpleasant, but finally the doctor said, 'You'll
live.'
'Thank you, Doctor.'
'Don't thank me. I'll have to report this.'
'I wish you wouldn't. I'm . . . I'm under a psychiatrist's care.
It was more an accident than anything else, really.'
The doctor raised his eyebrows. 'Twenty pills? You'd better
pay me now. I can't risk sending bills to people who may be
suicides.'
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Death Wish
'This is a fine gun for the price,' the clerk said. 'But for just a
few dollars more—'
'No, this will be satisfactory. I'll need a box of bullets.'
The clerk gave him a box. 'Or three boxes for—'
'Just the one.'
The shopkeeper opened a book. 'You'll have to sign there, to
keep the law happy.' He checked the signature when the man
had finished writing. 'I'm supposed to see something to identify
you, Mr Wright. Can I see your driver's license?' He checked
the license, compared the signatures, and wrote down the license
number.
'Thank you,' said the man.
'Thank you, Mr Wright. I think you'll get a lot of use out of
that gun.'
'I'm sure I will.'
At nine o'clock that night, Edward Wright heard his back
doorbell ring. He walked downstairs, glass in hand, finished his
drink and went to the door. He was a tall man with thick black
eyebrows. He looked outside, recognized his visitor, and opened
the door.
His visitor put a gun in Edward Wright's stomach.
'Mark—'
'Invite me in,' the man said. 'It's cold out here.'
'Mark, I don't—'
'Inside.'
In the living room, Edward Wright stared at the gun and knew
that he was going to die.
'You killed her, Ed,' the visitor said. 'She wanted a divorce.
You couldn't let her have that, could you? I told her it was
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American Crime Stories
dangerous to tell you, that you were nothing but an animal. I
told her to run away with me and forget you but she wanted to
do the right thing, and you killed her.'
'You're crazy!'
'You made it look like an accident, didn't you? How did you
do it? Tell me, or this gun goes off.'
'I hit her.' Wright looked at the gun, then at the man. 'I hit
her a few times, then I threw her down the stairs. You can't go
to the police with this, you know. They can't prove it and they
wouldn't believe it.'
'We won't go to the police,' the man said. 'I didn't go to them
at the beginning. They didn't know of a motive for you, did
they? I could have told them a motive, but I didn't go, Edward.
Sit down at your desk. Take out a piece of paper and a pen.
There's a message I want you to write.'
'You can't—'
'Write I can't go on any longer. This time I won't fail, and
sign your name.' He put the gun against the back of Edward
Wright's shaking head.
'You'll hang for it, Mark.'
'Suicide, Edward.'
'No one will believe I was a suicide, note or no note. They
won't believe it.'
'Just write the note, Edward. Then I'll give you the gun and
leave you to do what you must do.'
'You—'
'Just write the note. I don't want to kill you, Edward. I want
you to write the note, and then I'll leave you here.'
Wright did not exactly believe him, but the gun at his head
left him little choice. He wrote the note and signed his name.
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Death Wish
'Just write the note.'
'Turn round, Edward.'
He turned and stared. The man looked very different. He
had put on false eyebrows and false hair, and he had done
something to his eyes.
'Do you know who I look like now, Edward? I look like you.
American Crime Stories
Not exactly like you, of course, but a good imitation of you.'
'You — you've been pretending to be me? But why?'
'You just told me you're not the suicidal type, Edward. But
you'd be surprised at your recent behavior. There's a policeman
who had to talk you out of jumping off the Morrissey Bridge.
There's the psychiatrist Who has been seeing you and hearing
you talk about suicide. There's the doctor who had to pump
your stomach this afternoon. It was most unpleasant. I was
worried my false hair might slip, but it didn't. All those things
you've been doing, Edward. Strange that you can't remember
them. Do you remember! buying this gun this afternoon?'
'I— '
'You did, you know. Only an hour ago. You had to sign for
it. Had to show your driver's license, too.'
'How did you get my driver's license?'
'I didn't. I created it.' The man laughed softly. 'It wouldn't
fool a policeman, but no policeman saw it. It fooled the clerk
though. Not the suicidal type? All those people will swear you
are, Edward.'
'What about my friends? The people at the office?'
'They'll all help. They'll start to remember your moods. I'm
sure you've been acting very shocked and unhappy about her
death. You had to play the part, didn't you? You should never
have killed her, Edward. I loved her, even if you didn't. You
should have let her go, Edward.'
Wright was shaking with fear. 'You said you weren't going
to murder me. You were going to leave me with the gun—'
'Don't believe everything you hear,' the man said, and, very
quickly, he pushed the gun into Wright's mouth and shot him.
Afterwards, he arranged things neatly, wiped his own
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Death Wish
fingerprints from the gun and put Wright's fingerprints on it.
He left the note on top of the desk, put the psychiatrist's business
card into Wright's wallet, and the receipt for the gun into
Wright's pocket.
'You shouldn't have killed her,' he said to Wright's dead body.
Then, smiling privately, he went out of the back door and walked
off into the night.
Death on Christmas Eve
STANLEY ELLIN
A
s a child I had been impressed by the Boerum House. It was
fairly new then, and shiny with new paint - a huge Victorian
building. Standing in front of it this early Christmas Eve,
however, I could find no echo of that youthful impression. It
was all a depressing gray now, and the curtains behind the
windows were drawn completely so that the house seemed to
present blindly staring eyes to the passerby.
When I knocked my stick sharply on the door, Celia opened
it. 'There is a doorbell,' she said.
She was still wearing the long unfashionable and badly
wrinkled black dress which must have been her mother's, and
she looked more than ever like old Katrin had in her later years:
the thin bony body, the tight thin line of her lips, the colorless
hair pulled back hard enough to remove every wrinkle from her
forehead. She reminded me of a steel trap ready to shut down
on anyone who touched her incautiously.
I said, 'I am aware that the doorbell is not connected, Celia,'
and walked past her into the hall. She banged the door shut,
and instantly we were in half-darkness.
I put out my hand for the light switch, but Celia said sharply,
'This is no time for lights! There's been a death in this house,
you know that.'
'I have good reason to know,' I said, 'but your manner now
does not impress me.'
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American Crime Stories
'She was my brother's wife, and very dear to me.'
I moved towards her and rested my stick on her shoulder.
'Celia,' I said, 'as your family's lawyer, let me give you a word
of advice. The inquest is over, and you've been cleared. But
nobody believed you then, and nobody ever will. Remember
that.'
She pulled away. 'Is that what you came to tell me?'
'I came because I knew your brother would want to see me
today. I suggest you keep away while I talk to him.'
'Keep away from him yourself!' she cried. 'He was at the
inquest and saw them clear my name. In a little while he'll forget
the terrible things he thinks about me. Keep away from him so
that he can forget.'
I started walking cautiously up the dark stairs, but she
followed me. 'I prayed,' she said, 'and was told that life is too
short for hatred. So when he comes to me, I'll forgive him.'
I reached the top of the stairs and almost fell over something.
I swore, then said, 'If you're not going to use lights, you should
at least keep the way clear. Why don't you get these th