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The finishing touch by Charles S.
Wolfe One. A hasty survey assured rigidly

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that he was alone on the starlit
country road. With a sigh of satisfaction,

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he plunged swiftly into the brush which
skirted the roadside. There he paused,

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alert until his straining ears convinced him
that his movements had been unobserved.

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Then he made himself comfortable for his
brief figil. Crouching there, he reviewed

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minutely his actions so far and his
plans for what was to come. There

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was yet time if he had aired, if there was a flaw, to

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withdraw quietly. It was merely a
matter of waiting for another night. To

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be confronted with the damage wrought by
an overlooked trifle when it was too late

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would be agonizing, and his very
confidence disquieted him, made him feel that

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there was something amiss. Yet he
could find no weak link in his carefully

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forged chain. His left hand,
dropping to his coat pocket, found the

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bottle of cyanide of potassium solution,
securely corked and ready to assume its roll.

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His automatic, weighed heavily in the
other pocket, well oiled and loaded

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the light mask which now covered the
upper half of his face was really of

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no importance, just an extra precaution
which discounted the possible but highly improbable intrusion

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of some pedestrian. The cyanide he
felt sure no one would be able to

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trace. Several weeks before, he
had stolen a couple of small lumps quite

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enough for his purpose, from a
private laboratory of a friend who rode the

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hobby of chemistry. Few people knew
of the existence of the little attic laboratory.

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Fewer still were aware of his acquaintance
with its owner, and the man

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himself was ignorant of the fact that
his supply had been levied on. Since

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the deadly stuff had been dissolved and
bottled, and the bottle scrupulously cleaned,

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he had taken pains to avoid touching
it bare handed. Right now, his

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left hand was gloved with rubber.
There would be no finger prints to damn

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him. Footprints need give him no
concern. The roadway was dry and reasonably

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hard. The discoverers of the corpse
would quickly obliterate any slight clues of a

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definite nature which he might thus leave. Keenest of sleuths could examine the scene

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of his crime. To their hearts
content they would learn nothing. He had

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made no attempt to establish an alibi. In this he was satisfied he had

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acted wisely. The business of trying
to demonstrate that you were where you were

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not is usually a dangerous undertaking.
It involves either the employment of confederates or

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the use of complicated subterfuges, which
must either function with precision or turn into

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veritable boomerangs. The collapsing alibi is
too often the royal road to the electric

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chair. Originally knew that there was
just one person who could be relied upon

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to be forever silent on this night's
work, himself. Better to take the

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chance of the authorities being unable to
prove that he was on the spot at

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the time than to assume the burden
of proving that he was not. And

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anyway, most of the precautions he
had taken were no doubt unnecessary. They

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represented merely his forethought in forestalling unlocked
for disaster before it occurred. The chances

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were that the case would be looked
on as just what it seemed on the

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surface, suicide. There would probably
be little more than a perfunctory inquiry an

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inquest at which each fact produced would
seem to demonstrate conclusively that the man took

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his own life. Ridgeley prided himself
that the idea of killing a man by

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forcing him to kill himself was a
master stroke. A man found dead on

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the road, dead from the effects
of poison, and with the bottle containing

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that poison clutched tightly in his stiffened
hand, was obviously a suicide. There

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is no reason to suspect foul play
unless someone is known to have a strong

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motive for putting the unfortunate one out
of the way. And to the best

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of Ridgeley's knowledge and belief, Morey
hadn't an enemy in the world save himself,

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and thanks to his consistent and flawless
dissimilation, his secret was his own.

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Outwardly, he had been quite friendly
with more not too friendly, just

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enough to be counted really indifferent.
In the rare event of murder being suspected

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and the murderer sought for, there
would be no reason for alarm. One

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other only might possibly connect him with
the Knight's events. Mary's wife, Jean

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Moury, and Ridgeley shared a rather
guilty secret. She could assign to him

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a motive, but here again,
he was confident that perfect technique had practically

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nullified the danger of a roused suspicion. By guarding every word, by well

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planned and controlled actions, he had
assured her that he, like herself,

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was a harmless flirt. Not once
had she been permitted to glimpse the terrible

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passion that was his, Never had
she been allowed to plumb the depths of

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his crafty and daring nature. He
was safe on that score. Under the

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preteil and of carefully guarding her reputation, he had concealed their affair from outsiders

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and to her herself, he had
made the matter trivial. There was one

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circumstance, however, that might cause
comment, And as he thought of it,

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Ridgely grinned. While it was true
that no one apparently had a motive

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for slaying Mory, it was equally
true that the man had no apparent motive

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for killing himself. Happy, carefree, comfortably wealthy, and well satisfied with

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life. People might wonder that he
should court death. Ridgely grinned, for

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it was to this, to his
mind, the weakest point of his whole

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coup, that he had devoted the
most thought, expending the greatest effort.

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He had supplied the motive. Here
was the artistic triumph of the whole thing.

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Here was the finishing touch, for
the suspicions of the authorities would be

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allayed before they were aroused. During
the three months that he had known the

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Moury's, he had quietly, unobtrusively
collected specimens of John Moorey's handwriting, and

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by diligent practice he had enabled himself
to imitate the man's scrall so perfectly that

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he had no fear of the fraud
being detected. Not only the writing itself

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had he studied minutely, but the
style, the tricks of speech. Beyond

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doubt, the missive he had evolved
with so much care would pass unquestioned as

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the dead man's own work. He
drew forth an envelope, and, by

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the light of his electric torch,
scrutinized with pride and satisfaction the letter he

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had written. The envelope was addressed
to missus John Morey. Dear Jean,

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I am sorry, terribly sorry for
the notoriety this thing will cause. I

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realize that you will be shocked.
I am asking your forgiveness. For four

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years I have suffered in silence Jean, for our marriage was a bitter mistake.

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I did not love you. I
realized it when it was too late.

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I have done my best to conceal
the fact from you, but I

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know I could not go on living
a lie much longer. I am taking

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the easiest way out. It is
only just that I should suffer for my

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own sin. John. As he
replaced the letter in its envelope, Ridgely

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chuckled. He would place this missive
in the man's pocket after he had fallen,

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and there was the motive all ready
to satisfy the most critical scandal.

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Loving eyes scanning Morey's past for sensational
disclosures of his implied double life, would

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not dwell too closely on the method
of his taking off furnish. He stiff,

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and the soft thud of moving feet
on the hard road reached his ears,

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Growing steadily louder. He knew it
was Maury. The moment had come

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two. Ridgeley's hand closed resolutely over
his automatic. Maury, he knew,

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was unarmed. He slipped soundlessly to
the edge of the cops and waited until

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the approaching form was only a few
feet from his ambush. Then he sprang

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out, weapon leveled barring the way. There was a startled oath as Maury

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caught sight of the ominous figure before
him. Ridgeley's gruff command to throw up

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his hands was instantly obeyed. The
surprise was complete. Don't speak, Ridgeley

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rather hoped that his disguised voice would
completely mask his identity. But it didn't

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matter. Really, do as you
were told. You are going to sleep

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for an hour or so until I
clean you and make my getaway. Really,

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Maury was regaining his nerve. I
haven't enough about me to make it

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worth your while. Shut up.
Ridgeley's command was kurt as he advanced toward

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his victim. The deadly bottle in
his gloved left hand, he extended it

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toward Morey, drink it, he
growled. Determinedly. Maury lowered one arm

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and took the bottle hesitantly. What
is it, he asked, falteringly.

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Claral hydrate, if you must know, responded Ridgeley, in tones of well

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feigned sulkiness. Enough to put you
out for a couple of hours. Knock

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out drops, take your choice,
drink it and go out for a couple

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of hours, or he waved the
automatic, suggestedly go out for keeps.

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Look here, began Moury, I'll
promise drink it, he snapped savagely.

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Without further parley, Maury raised the
bottle to his lips. It was only

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an instant, really, but to
rigidly waiting anxiously, it seemed hours before

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the body crumbled to the roadway.
Then swiftly he went to his victim,

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pocketing his automatic. His gloved hand
inserted the letter into Maury's pocket. He

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noted that the bottle was tightly gripped
in the dead man's hand, and noiselessly

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he stole away from the place.
A short cut through the little woodland brought

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him out onto the main road.
Without haste, he wented his way toward

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the summer hotel. He was jubilant
Maury was out of his way. He

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had only to wait the proper moment
to increase the ardor of his courting.

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He felt that the widow would lend
an attentive ear. He passed no one

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on the road. Everything was coming
his way. As he gained his room,

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unobserved, he was whistling softly,
not a pang of remorse to sear

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his conscience ridgely, wasn't that kind? He turned in and slept like a

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top. He was awakened by a
sharp knocking on the room door. Bright

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sunlight was streaming in through the thickly
curtained windows. A hasty glance at the

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clock told him that it was after
ten. The knocking continued insistently. He

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sprang out of bed and reached for
his bathrobe. Just a minute, he

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called, as he hurriedly pulled a
comb through his tousled hair. An instant

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later, fairly presentable, he was
gazing inquiringly at the tall young man who

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had pushed in through the partially opened
door. Even before the other had introduced

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himself. Ridgely knew that his caller
was a detective. Something must have gone

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wrong, he thought, and his
mind went racing swiftly over the details of

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the evening before seeking to find and
forestall the consequences of a slip. He

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was not panicky. His visitor was
speaking. John Morey was found dead on

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the road late last night. Mister
Ridgley. Ridgely carefully sidestepped a possible trap.

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An accident, he asked, in
perfectly toned surprise and concern. No,

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replied the other. He was murdered. Ridgeley concealed his dismay. How

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in the devil, had they reached
that conclusion so soon in the face of

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his carefully prepared evidence to the contrary
murdered, he echoed blankly, how by

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whom the tall young man sat down, watching ridgely narrowly, his right hand

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had dropped carelessly into his pocket.
He leaned forward slightly and spoke swiftly.

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By you, mister Ridgley, he
replied evenly, No, don't interrupt.

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You set a very pretty stage,
my friend, and you have been careful,

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careful to a fault. It was
your little finishing touch that betrayed you.

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That and a woman's vanity. Missus
Morey is a very beautiful woman with

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a very plain name. It has
been her little failing to hide that fact.

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Her name is not Jean Ridgeley,
It's Jane, and Marey never called

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her anything else in private. When
she saw that letter you so carefully left,

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she knew Morey had never written it, despite the excellent forgery, for

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he hated the name Jean as much
as she disliked Jane. She is a

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big enough woman to admit her own
shortcomings. And shall I read the warrant?

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The end of the finishing touch