The finishing touch by Charles S. Wolfe One. A hasty survey assured rigidly
that he was alone on the starlit country road. With a sigh of satisfaction,
he plunged swiftly into the brush which skirted the roadside. There he paused,
alert until his straining ears convinced him that his movements had been unobserved.
Then he made himself comfortable for his brief figil. Crouching there, he reviewed
minutely his actions so far and his plans for what was to come. There
was yet time if he had aired, if there was a flaw, to
withdraw quietly. It was merely a matter of waiting for another night. To
be confronted with the damage wrought by an overlooked trifle when it was too late
would be agonizing, and his very confidence disquieted him, made him feel that
there was something amiss. Yet he could find no weak link in his carefully
forged chain. His left hand, dropping to his coat pocket, found the
bottle of cyanide of potassium solution, securely corked and ready to assume its roll.
His automatic, weighed heavily in the other pocket, well oiled and loaded
the light mask which now covered the upper half of his face was really of
no importance, just an extra precaution which discounted the possible but highly improbable intrusion
of some pedestrian. The cyanide he felt sure no one would be able to
trace. Several weeks before, he had stolen a couple of small lumps quite
enough for his purpose, from a private laboratory of a friend who rode the
hobby of chemistry. Few people knew of the existence of the little attic laboratory.
Fewer still were aware of his acquaintance with its owner, and the man
himself was ignorant of the fact that his supply had been levied on. Since
the deadly stuff had been dissolved and bottled, and the bottle scrupulously cleaned,
he had taken pains to avoid touching it bare handed. Right now, his
left hand was gloved with rubber. There would be no finger prints to damn
him. Footprints need give him no concern. The roadway was dry and reasonably
hard. The discoverers of the corpse would quickly obliterate any slight clues of a
definite nature which he might thus leave. Keenest of sleuths could examine the scene
of his crime. To their hearts content they would learn nothing. He had
made no attempt to establish an alibi. In this he was satisfied he had
acted wisely. The business of trying to demonstrate that you were where you were
not is usually a dangerous undertaking. It involves either the employment of confederates or
the use of complicated subterfuges, which must either function with precision or turn into
veritable boomerangs. The collapsing alibi is too often the royal road to the electric
chair. Originally knew that there was just one person who could be relied upon
to be forever silent on this night's work, himself. Better to take the
chance of the authorities being unable to prove that he was on the spot at
the time than to assume the burden of proving that he was not. And
anyway, most of the precautions he had taken were no doubt unnecessary. They
represented merely his forethought in forestalling unlocked for disaster before it occurred. The chances
were that the case would be looked on as just what it seemed on the
surface, suicide. There would probably be little more than a perfunctory inquiry an
inquest at which each fact produced would seem to demonstrate conclusively that the man took
his own life. Ridgeley prided himself that the idea of killing a man by
forcing him to kill himself was a master stroke. A man found dead on
the road, dead from the effects of poison, and with the bottle containing
that poison clutched tightly in his stiffened hand, was obviously a suicide. There
is no reason to suspect foul play unless someone is known to have a strong
motive for putting the unfortunate one out of the way. And to the best
of Ridgeley's knowledge and belief, Morey hadn't an enemy in the world save himself,
and thanks to his consistent and flawless dissimilation, his secret was his own.
Outwardly, he had been quite friendly with more not too friendly, just
enough to be counted really indifferent. In the rare event of murder being suspected
and the murderer sought for, there would be no reason for alarm. One
other only might possibly connect him with the Knight's events. Mary's wife, Jean
Moury, and Ridgeley shared a rather guilty secret. She could assign to him
a motive, but here again, he was confident that perfect technique had practically
nullified the danger of a roused suspicion. By guarding every word, by well
planned and controlled actions, he had assured her that he, like herself,
was a harmless flirt. Not once had she been permitted to glimpse the terrible
passion that was his, Never had she been allowed to plumb the depths of
his crafty and daring nature. He was safe on that score. Under the
preteil and of carefully guarding her reputation, he had concealed their affair from outsiders
and to her herself, he had made the matter trivial. There was one
circumstance, however, that might cause comment, And as he thought of it,
Ridgely grinned. While it was true that no one apparently had a motive
for slaying Mory, it was equally true that the man had no apparent motive
for killing himself. Happy, carefree, comfortably wealthy, and well satisfied with
life. People might wonder that he should court death. Ridgely grinned, for
it was to this, to his mind, the weakest point of his whole
coup, that he had devoted the most thought, expending the greatest effort.
He had supplied the motive. Here was the artistic triumph of the whole thing.
Here was the finishing touch, for the suspicions of the authorities would be
allayed before they were aroused. During the three months that he had known the
Moury's, he had quietly, unobtrusively collected specimens of John Moorey's handwriting, and
by diligent practice he had enabled himself to imitate the man's scrall so perfectly that
he had no fear of the fraud being detected. Not only the writing itself
had he studied minutely, but the style, the tricks of speech. Beyond
doubt, the missive he had evolved with so much care would pass unquestioned as
the dead man's own work. He drew forth an envelope, and, by
the light of his electric torch, scrutinized with pride and satisfaction the letter he
had written. The envelope was addressed to missus John Morey. Dear Jean,
I am sorry, terribly sorry for the notoriety this thing will cause. I
realize that you will be shocked. I am asking your forgiveness. For four
years I have suffered in silence Jean, for our marriage was a bitter mistake.
I did not love you. I realized it when it was too late.
I have done my best to conceal the fact from you, but I
know I could not go on living a lie much longer. I am taking
the easiest way out. It is only just that I should suffer for my
own sin. John. As he replaced the letter in its envelope, Ridgely
chuckled. He would place this missive in the man's pocket after he had fallen,
and there was the motive all ready to satisfy the most critical scandal.
Loving eyes scanning Morey's past for sensational disclosures of his implied double life, would
not dwell too closely on the method of his taking off furnish. He stiff,
and the soft thud of moving feet on the hard road reached his ears,
Growing steadily louder. He knew it was Maury. The moment had come
two. Ridgeley's hand closed resolutely over his automatic. Maury, he knew,
was unarmed. He slipped soundlessly to the edge of the cops and waited until
the approaching form was only a few feet from his ambush. Then he sprang
out, weapon leveled barring the way. There was a startled oath as Maury
caught sight of the ominous figure before him. Ridgeley's gruff command to throw up
his hands was instantly obeyed. The surprise was complete. Don't speak, Ridgeley
rather hoped that his disguised voice would completely mask his identity. But it didn't
matter. Really, do as you were told. You are going to sleep
for an hour or so until I clean you and make my getaway. Really,
Maury was regaining his nerve. I haven't enough about me to make it
worth your while. Shut up. Ridgeley's command was kurt as he advanced toward
his victim. The deadly bottle in his gloved left hand, he extended it
toward Morey, drink it, he growled. Determinedly. Maury lowered one arm
and took the bottle hesitantly. What is it, he asked, falteringly.
Claral hydrate, if you must know, responded Ridgeley, in tones of well
feigned sulkiness. Enough to put you out for a couple of hours. Knock
out drops, take your choice, drink it and go out for a couple
of hours, or he waved the automatic, suggestedly go out for keeps.
Look here, began Moury, I'll promise drink it, he snapped savagely.
Without further parley, Maury raised the bottle to his lips. It was only
an instant, really, but to rigidly waiting anxiously, it seemed hours before
the body crumbled to the roadway. Then swiftly he went to his victim,
pocketing his automatic. His gloved hand inserted the letter into Maury's pocket. He
noted that the bottle was tightly gripped in the dead man's hand, and noiselessly
he stole away from the place. A short cut through the little woodland brought
him out onto the main road. Without haste, he wented his way toward
the summer hotel. He was jubilant Maury was out of his way. He
had only to wait the proper moment to increase the ardor of his courting.
He felt that the widow would lend an attentive ear. He passed no one
on the road. Everything was coming his way. As he gained his room,
unobserved, he was whistling softly, not a pang of remorse to sear
his conscience ridgely, wasn't that kind? He turned in and slept like a
top. He was awakened by a sharp knocking on the room door. Bright
sunlight was streaming in through the thickly curtained windows. A hasty glance at the
clock told him that it was after ten. The knocking continued insistently. He
sprang out of bed and reached for his bathrobe. Just a minute, he
called, as he hurriedly pulled a comb through his tousled hair. An instant
later, fairly presentable, he was gazing inquiringly at the tall young man who
had pushed in through the partially opened door. Even before the other had introduced
himself. Ridgely knew that his caller was a detective. Something must have gone
wrong, he thought, and his mind went racing swiftly over the details of
the evening before seeking to find and forestall the consequences of a slip. He
was not panicky. His visitor was speaking. John Morey was found dead on
the road late last night. Mister Ridgley. Ridgely carefully sidestepped a possible trap.
An accident, he asked, in perfectly toned surprise and concern. No,
replied the other. He was murdered. Ridgeley concealed his dismay. How
in the devil, had they reached that conclusion so soon in the face of
his carefully prepared evidence to the contrary murdered, he echoed blankly, how by
whom the tall young man sat down, watching ridgely narrowly, his right hand
had dropped carelessly into his pocket. He leaned forward slightly and spoke swiftly.
By you, mister Ridgley, he replied evenly, No, don't interrupt.
You set a very pretty stage, my friend, and you have been careful,
careful to a fault. It was your little finishing touch that betrayed you.
That and a woman's vanity. Missus Morey is a very beautiful woman with
a very plain name. It has been her little failing to hide that fact.
Her name is not Jean Ridgeley, It's Jane, and Marey never called
her anything else in private. When she saw that letter you so carefully left,
she knew Morey had never written it, despite the excellent forgery, for
he hated the name Jean as much as she disliked Jane. She is a
big enough woman to admit her own shortcomings. And shall I read the warrant?
The end of the finishing touch