His thirteenth wife, by Herbert Raymond Carter. One with Jonas Bruckner, marriage
had become a habit and a highly profitable one. Under various aliases, he
had led a dozen different wives to the altar and later followed them to the
grave. In each instance he had survived to find himself a wiser and richer
man. Naturally, the statutes concerning bigamy had never troubled him. In every
venture. He had been legally free of his previous bride before contracting the responsibilities
resulting from another wedding, and by uncanny good fortune, the laws against murder
had left him unscathed and unsuspected. Since the days of his youth, Bruckner
had worshiped Bluebeard as his hero. In his teens, he had devoured newspaper
accounts of doings of the modern Mania. Invariably, their unskilled slaying of successive
spouses in order to collect insurance had ended in their intimate association with the scaffold,
the electric chair, or the guillotine. Bruckner would smile up his sleeve
over their clumsiness, and, in choosing his vocation, resolved that he,
at least would never be so crude. Insurance companies, he had learned,
were customarily curious, and the profession which Bruckner proposed to enter made inquisitiveness on
the part of others extremely undesirable. In the first place, he determined never
to give his name to any maiden or widow who carried a policy on her
life. Should his prospects be insured, they must allow that protection to lapse
upon the assistance that the bridegroom possessed plenty for two. Thus he eliminated one
source of suspicion as to his motives. If, however, those who ensnared
his accordion like heart happened to be wealthy, Bruckner certainly could not be blamed.
Besides, he always made it a rule to state to license clerks that
he was a bachelor, casually adding that he was well to do and retired.
This knowledge was also the bait he persistently dangled in order to catch his
intended victims. The plan had been remarkably successful, to which Bruckner's worldly possessions
bore mute testimony frequently money talks. But Bruckner's was as silent as the graves
from which it had been obtained. Under each new alias, he maintained a
modest bank account for current expenses. None of them had been large enough to
cause him any regret if he suddenly found it inconvenient to cash another check or
present himself in person to claim his balance. The bulk of his fortune he
kept in cash in several widely separated safe deposit vaults to the banks where these
sums were stored. He was known under various names, and was understood to
be an eccentric man who traveled extensively. The names he assumed for this purpose
were never employed for any other form of his activities. His long absences and
semi occasional appearances caused no comment and had never resulted in undue curiosity. In
fact, the officials of these reserve institutions as he turned them, were not
aware of the contents of the boxes Bruckner rented. Probably they imagined he used
them for storing papers. One, however, did contain something vastly different In
it were the tools of his trade, poisons of varying natures, which he
picked up at intervals in infinitesimly small quantities in various part of the world.
Being versatile, he liked to vary his method of operation and took a genuine
pride in his work. Mad he undoubtedly was, but the man was an
artist, and no manufacturer or financier or creator of beautiful things ever took more
satisfaction in his accomplishments than did Bruckner. The one fly in the ointment was
the fact that he could never confide in anyone just how clever he really was
to atone for this, and by way of diversion, he occasionally indulged in
criminalities of a totally different nature, in fields where he might share his triumphs
with others. He had a smattering of medicine and knew much chemistry, both
of which he studied with sinister intent. He had played at being an amateur
cracksman, and had been complimented upon his skills in opening safes. Likewise,
he had participated in several notorious black hand outrage and was well and favorably known
in those circles. That is, the personality he assumed for this purpose was
known to such associates. Thus Bruckner had broadened his knowledge of the ways and
means of producing death in secret, and had familiarized himself with other branches of
the trade upon which he might fall back in case wife murder, ever became
an unhealthy occupation. Bruckner flattered himself that during the whole of his career he
had never made a single mistake. Not once had he been regarded as anything
but a sincere mourner at the biers of his dear departeds, never had he
run a foul of coroner or police. At times, he chuckled over his
remarkable capacities and congratulated himself upon his caution and truly exceptional foresight. Perhaps his
success was due to the fact that he concentrated upon crime in its more subtle
branch, and had never been addicted to any vice, either petty or great,
nor had a pretty face ever tempted him. During the whole of his
marital adventures, Bruckner had never once been in love, not even the victim
of a passing infatuation. Business before pleasure was his motto, and he adhered
to it strictly, because he found the courtship stage of his engagements a trying
ordeal. Marriage usually followed his proposals swiftly with grim humor. He often boasted
to himself that he had no heart, and in view of this fact,
he was reluctant to indulge needlessly in silly love making. Women of his choice
were invariably rather mature and usually unromantic. The more homely they might be,
the better satisfied he was. A young and attractive wife might have admirers who
would interfere with his plans. She would also be more likely to have relatives
who might have too much to say, and to whom her death would be
a real bereavement. Widows with children were banned. He had an aversion to
step sons and daughters about the house instead. This pseudo lonely bachelor always sought
a matron similarly situated, each with a tidy sum to support them, and
both desiring a quiet, comfortable home. There was method in his rule.
Not only was he assured of privacy in the domicile about to be established,
but he could not be accused of the unpardonable crime of marrying for money.
Bruckner was both sensitive and proud. He valued the good opinion of the community
because it was an asset in his curious business. To pick out a bride
of great wealth would mean additional difficulty in collecting his inheritance after the obsequious such
details would be bound to be annoying, and Bruckner loved simplicity In this respect.
A few thousand dollars, always less than his own nest egg, and
perhaps a small property upon which no other heirs had any claim, were to
be readily gathered in without the formality of court proceedings or the advice of counsel.
After each deal, he cased in his gains, opened a new bank
account under a new name, and stored his net profits in one of his
safety deposit boxes. This had been going on for years. It was true
that such gradual means of accumulating wealth necessitated many marriages. None of his wives
had lived more than three years after the wedding, but in no case did
he cause a death under twelve months. He remained prudent rather than avaricious or
hasty. He never sought a rapid denouments at the risk of personal safety.
Moreover, his wives all died seemingly natural deaths and were fittingly interred. Bruckner
would not countenance anything so crude as to savor of murder. Also, Bruckner
had a certain sentiment about proper burials. As a result, each simple ceremony
was marked with unobstentatious respect. While the countryside was dotted here and there with
nicely cared for graves and tastefully adequate tombstones. Everything he did was done very
well. Sec. Two. When analyzed, Bruckner's plan was as simple as
it was practical and resultful. He would go to a small town and take
a comfortable room at a cheap hotel or boarding house frequented only by men.
Without undue heraldry, he would announce that he was seeking a suitable place to
end his days after he had attained the age of fifty. This sounded reasonable,
so he discarded the various fantastic stories so successfully circulated during his youth.
These had been ingenious, but rather more risky. In fact, he now
looked back with concern upon the chances he had taken in connection with his first
alliance, contracted when he was twenty. His initial venture had culminated admirably,
however, and his four successive ones covering a scant ten years, also paid
him neat profits. Now, when he was installed in a new and temporary
residence, Bruckner would make it a point to scrape up a speaking acquaintance with
a few substantial but humble souls in the neighborhood. He never associated with those
who were prominent or overly endowed with worldly goods. He could not afford to
make a permanent name for himself. He was always fading out of or into
a picture. He was but a passing incident in the life of each community.
To his chosen cronies, he would casually state that he was a plain
man without frills. He regretted that he had not settled down and taken unto
himself a life companion before he had grown too old to think of matrimony.
Frequently this observation would bring forth good natured chuckles and sly winks. Male matchmakers
would pass on the word to their immense hatching wives, and soon several no
longer youthful hopefuls would begin to preen themselves and press mister Bruckner to drop in
for tea. Reluctantly, he would accept and begin to judicious sound out the
situation. If all seemed well, he would guardedly hint of his state of
mind and eventually suggest a married partnership on the basis of mutual contribution to costs
and common conuvial convenience. If the proposition met with a favorable reception, and
the recipient of his attention appeared pliable, the marriage would be solemnized at no
distant date. When this portion of the program was over, Bruckner would bide
his time before springing the climax of his little drama. There were several phases
of the stage setting to be considered. If his newly acquired wife was not
possessed of real property, and there seemed no reason for their remaining where they
were, he would find some good incentive for moving to another city. The
death of a middle aged matron caused less commotion in a neighborhood where she was
a stranger. Such a move made, he could proceed at his leisure without
engendering gossip or unwelcome sympathy. Of course, where a wife possessed valuable lots
or houses, or perhaps a little business, he must gradually make excuses to
dispose of these, or else remain on the spot and wait until he could
do so. As sole executor practice had made him perfect, no matter which
course he was forced to take. In any event, no sooner would the
funeral be forgotten than Buckner would move on. Invariably, those who had known
him, expressed their regret and felt genuinely sorry for the lonely, broken hearted
man. Once or twice a second candidate had coyly sought his attention, but
such a woman had no chance whatever. Under no conditions would Buckner marry twice
in the same town, or even under the same name. His various ventures
were widely separated as to scene. He would shake his name together with the
dust of the deserted community and assume a new and equally commonplace one upon his
arrival in the section selected for his next proceeding. That little matter of choice
of names indicated his extreme cleverness. Never was he known by a distinct cognomen.
His surname was likely to be the most numerously mentioned in the local directory.
Fortune favored Bruckner in that he was a man whose appearance made his age
seem uncertain. As he pleased, he was readily able to subtract or add
ten or twenty years from the truth. Then, too, he made a
careful study of personal appearance, and, without resorting to artificial means of disguise,
had in his box of tricks several method of altering his looks little niceties
of dress. A different manner of brushing the hair. The time worn cultivation
or destruction of mustaches, beards, side whiskers, and imperials all served his
purpose upon occasion. Possessed of an excellent memory, a perfect capacity for forgetting
the past, and a penchant for looking into the future, Buckner was well
equipped. He was devoid of conscience, insensible to sentiment, and looked forward
to the day when he might safely write his memoirs to be published posthumously.
Three Such was the man who found himself a widower for the twelfth time last
fall. Upon casting up his accounts after the final ceremonies of that funeral,
Bruckner, as he had elected to style himself, discovered his total fortune amounted
to some two hundred thousand dollars. It was safely stowed away in his safe
deposit strongholds. He had, remaining under the new name of Bruckner, sufficient
capital to see him through his next adventure. The surplus he did not mean
to touch. As usual. Yet, in the weeks that followed the death
and the settlement of the estate of his most recent wife, Bruckner seriously considered
the idea of remaining single. Like many another prosperous man. After years of
striving, he longed for a life of indolence, broken of its monotony by
such pursuits as might please him. He hated the very thought of home.
He had no wish to settle down. He had possessed a suffold of wives
that he did not want in a personal way. Bruckner had married them in
the casual course of business, and this gave him a thought in the nature
of a vacation. Suppose he should seek a spouse who actually pleased him.
Thus far, he had not experienced such a genuine pleasure. For a man
married as much as he, The situation was silly. Yet Bruckner had his
doubts. If he paid court to a young and beautiful girl, one whom
he really admired, he might, even after the passage of all these years,
fall in love with her. That would prove fatal. He had heard
of idiots drunk with love who told their wives everything that would never do in
the first place. A lady might not prove sympathetic. Also, he was
certain that sooner or later he would desire to kill her from the sheer force
of habit, or perhaps from ennui. Since he no longer needed money.
Such a situation would be awkward if he became devoted to her, for then
he would break the heart which had been proof against Cupid's darts through all these
years of many marriages. So he relinquished the thought and went to New York
to rest up a bit and think the situation over. As usual, he
went to a modest hotel. Yet the days he spent alone were tedious,
and like a fish out of water, he longed to plunge once more into
the matrimonial sea. For a time, he had whiled away some of his
hours in the company of a Russian who claimed to have been a watchmaker to
the late Czar. This gentleman still made time pieces, but he made them
to put in bombs, and made them very well. His genius appealed to
Bruckner, and the two became quite friendly, although Bruckner was slightly nervous lest
the police should visit the bomb maker's place while he was present. However,
he had no other company. His safe cracking friends were all in jail,
and the others were safe beyond the reach of the law, or else had
been reached by it and removed from this veil of tears. So he found
himself craving for action and the further exercise of his remarkable talents. Then he
met missus Mary Corkran, a healthy, husky lady who was doomed to become
his wife from the first moment he saw her. Missus Corkran was a widow
of just the proper age, not too wealthy, Bruckner thought, although she
was possessed of a trifle more than her predecessors. She owned a place by
the seashore and was extremely fond of bathing. She had a little motor boat,
and at the time when Bruckner entered her life, was about to open
her bungalow for the season. The situation appealed to Bruckner. He needed a
rest and a change of clime, and a stay by the sea would be
welcome. It would do him good and build up his health while he planned
how to break down hers. So he mentioned to the widow as much of
his plan as was fitting for a lady to know. She proved entirely agreeable,
even eager Brucknor thought. In fact, he was rather afraid that she
was in love with him. That might prove awkward, but it could not
be helped, so he married her and took a solemn oath that when this
adventure was over, he would never again tempt fate. The bungalow was on
a little sandy point, some miles from the nearest town and the railroad station.
Missus Bruckner knee Corkran, taxied back and forth from the village in her
motor boat when her fancy suggested such journeys or purchases required them. Bruckner spent
much of his time sitting on the beach with his pipe and his thoughts,
and practically lived the life of a married hermit. They got on together beautifully,
and Bruckner thanked his stars that the woman did not desire him to be
eternally complimenting or petting her. Her sole aim was his comfort, and never
in all of his thirteen marital ventures had he lived so pleasantly and contentedly.
It almost seemed a shame to terminate such an ideal arrangement. In fact,
it would be little short of a crime. Four. But just as he
knew he would, Bruckner reverted to type. He simply could could not resist
the temptation to kill the woman. She did not annoy him. He had
nothing against her, and he did not wish her money. Just the same,
he wanted to kill her, and he wanted to do it in some
new and original way. For days he thought it over and grew more perplexed.
With the passage of time. He could not sleep at night, and
he found himself nervous and restless. His appetite began to fail, a condition
unheard of before, and even his pipe and tobacco failed to sulace him.
Once or twice, he wondered whether it would not be wise if he went
out and got drunk. He vetoed the idea, however, for he had
always made it a rule to keep his head clear and his brain unfuddled.
Drunken men and women, Bruckner always said, are inclined to talk too much,
and he was a man of silence. Besides, the whoch lately available
had in cases proved fatal. During all his meditation and perplexity, Missus Bruckner
remained in blissful ignorance of the thing which was troubling him. It was true
that she seemed to suspect that something was wrong, but when she pressed for
an explanation, he naturally put her off. She appeared to be alarmed about
his health and was consistently urging him to go and consult a physician. He
flatly refused and told her he had never been sick a day in his life.
Of course, he knew what was the matter, and also knew very
well that no physician's prescription would cure his ailment. His wife made more frequent
trips to the little village, and even went to New York to bring back
dainty viance to tempt his appetite. Apparently, her sole ambition in life was
to prepare a dish that would tickle his palate, and Bruckner was not without
some appreciation of her kindness and concern. At times, he almost resolved to
put away his idea and let the woman live, But in patience to have
it over with and to be at peace with the world mastered him. At
last. His intentions crystallized into action on the morning when she announced her intention
of going over to Calder's Point to attend a pinnuckle party. Bruckner never played
cards and said he would not go. However, he even urged that she
indulge in this pleasant diversion. You stay around me too much, he pressed
her tenderly. You are wearing yourself out looking after my health. Stop worrying
and have a good time while you may. I mean while you're still young
and have your health, he added, realizing that he had almost made an
unfortunate slip. All right, I will, if you really don't mind.
She agreed and explained that the party would occur on the following Monday night.
She proposed to take the motor boat over, leaving at seven o'clock, remaining
for the night, and chug chugging back again the following morning. Ruckner was
delighted. A sudden inspiration had plunged him into an ecstasy of joy. At
last, like a bolt from the blue, he had hit upon a plan
to do away with the woman. It was entirely possible that the thing had
been done before, but it was new to Bruckner. It could not possibly
savor of design, and it would happen while she was away. He would
be presumed to know nothing of the accident until the heartrending news should be brought
to him. Then he would be stunned. Ruckner was a past master of
registering grief, surprise, anguish, but after the funeral he could spend the
entire summer at the bungalow in undisturbed peace. He was glad that he could
accomplish his purpose so early in the spring, for, unlike the average ban
his thoughts did not lightly turn to love in that entrancing period. The thought
necessitated a visit to his friend, the clockmaker, to the former czar,
he made it and outlined his needs minutely. That is, he told the
clockmaker precisely the sort of box he desired, how long and how wide it
should be, and explain just how its timepiece was to be set. It
was to be put up in a candy box and tied neatly with ribbon.
It should weigh five pounds and bear the wrapping of a small confectioner. On
the day he meant to use it, Bruckner would call for the box.
It must be ready, and everything must be fixed so that he would not
need to unwrap it. Missus Broucko was going away in her little sea taxi
at seven o'clock. He would arrive from the city an hour before. He
planned to reach the bungalow via a hired launch, timing himself to get there
a little late for supper, but in time to bid her goodbye. When
he did so, he would thoughtfully put the box of candy in his wife's
motor boat, calling her attention to it and laughingly instructing her not to nibble
at its contents during the journey. He wished her to save it for the
party and present it to her hostess. He hoped she would obey. The
trip would take her a little more than an hour. She did not mind
that, since she loved the sea and could handle her craft as well as
any man. But if everything went well, missus Bruckner would never land at
the wharf at Calder's Point. Just about fifteen minutes before she was due to
reach the settlement, the little clock would tick its final tick, and missus
Bruckner would proceed to eternity instead of the Pinnuckle party. The complete simplicity of
the scheme appealed to him strongly. He would put the bomb near the gasoline
tank. Its explosion would destroy that container, and every one would surmise that
the blowing up of the fuel store had caused the tragedy. No one but
the dead woman would know about the candy box. That is, no one
but the clockmaker of the Czar that gentleman would not be likely to speak.
Secrecy was also essential to the success of his profession, and in such matters
he was strictly honorable and thoroughly reliable. He need not know for whom the
box was intended, and for reasons of his own, he would not inquire
too deeply into the matter. Five everything went as planned. On Monday,
mister Bruckner announced that it would be necessary for him to go to the city
in connection with some business at his broker's. He promised to return as speedily
as he could, but told his wife not to wait for him if he
should not be home by the time she intended to leave. That was camouflage,
carefully planned. He always thought of little details like that in order to
turn away suspicion from the minds of his victims. Besides, he wanted to
establish an alibi and have it known that he was away all day. Moreover,
he always disliked to be around his victims just before the climax of his
cunning. Their very confidence and trust in him always tended to annoy him.
But he knew very well that he would be back on time. Otherwise,
of course, he could not place the candy box in the little lunch.
The clockmaker was ready for him, and the box itself was a beauty,
as creditable a piece of work as Bruckner had ever seen. It did not
weigh too much nor too little, and while he was assured that the watch
was perfect in its mechanism and timing, it did not give forth the slightest
sound. The watchmaker beamed when he saw the look of admiration in Bruckner's eyes,
and told him that he might trust the little bomb. Implicitly, it
is worthy to blow up a prime minister, enthused its author. Unfortunately,
these days kings are few, and trade is far from good. The war
seems to have caused an unreasonable dislike for explosives on the part of my very
best customers. Bruckner condoled with the little man and took his departure. He
had received the professional word of the watchmaker that the bomb would not go off
if he dropped it, and that it would not explode until eight fifteen.
Precisely that was Bruckner's wish. The detonation would be heard just as the motor
boat was entering the waters around Calder's Point, and would startle those on shore
waiting for his wife. In all probability, the bomb would tear her to
pieces and wreck the boat completely. At least it would utterly destroy itself and
the gasoline tank that was of course essential, for there must be no remaining
evidence, even though no clue could possibly point to him. But because the
time schedule of the railroad had been changed without his knowledge, Bruckner did not
arrive at the bungalow until almost seven o'clock. It had been a narrow escape
from being too late, and the incident made him nervous. Yet in a
way he thought it was fortunate missus Bruckner was down at the landing, dressed
in her best bit ub and tucker, and she greeted him with a smile
and an inquiry as to his health. You look tired, my dear,
she sympathized, in a motherly sort of fashion. I really hate to go
away and leave you. I am tired, Bruckner confessed. I guess I'm
not as young as I used to be and haven't been right pert for the
last few weeks. I'll soon be better, however, he added, cheerfully.
Just you go on and have a good time and don't give a thought
to me. Then he produced the candy box and displayed it to her.
The boatman who had brought him was gone by this time, and he had
not seen the package, which Bruckner had kept wrapped in a newspaper until this
very moment. Now, missus Bruckner took it in her hands and plucked at
the ribbon, But he shook his finger at her, as he might do
to a naughty child. Now, don't be impatient or selfish, he reproved.
Keep it until you get to the party, then offer some to the
others with my compliments. I suppose I should do that. She agreed with
him. But now I must be going. There's a light under, the
coffee on the stove, and your suppers on the table. You won't mind
a cold snack, will you, No, Ruckner said, And then one
flaw in his plan occurred to him. How could he make sure she would
put the candy box where it would certainly destroy the gasoling tank? He could
not. If he left it in her possession, of course, it would
kill her. But that was not enough. His plan must work out exactly
as he had intended, and the only way to ensure this perfect success was
to go along in the boat that, in a way was a risk,
but Bruckner was equal to the situation. It required quick thinking, but he
had a bright idea on the spot. Well, he reproached himself. If
I didn't forget my tobacco, I guess I'd better go back as far as
the station with you and then get one of the public launches to bring me
home. It won't take more than half an hour, and I'll eat supper
later. So he took the candy box from his wife's hand and helped her
into the boat. She went directly to the little engine and started it as
he stepped aboard. The bomb would not blow up for about an hour.
In twenty minutes, he would be at the station landing. When he got
out, he would put the candy box by the gasoline tank and lay a
tarpaulin over it, with the explanation that he did so to keep it from
being wetted by the spray. Missus Bruckner would think nothing of that, and
would probably forget all about the candy until it reminded her of itself. Forcibly
Speedily, the little boat chugged away from the wharf and cut the waves like
a knife as it shot off toward the safe pier. It was twilight,
growing gradually darker, and the lights began to twinkle from the group of cottages
ahead. Perhaps Bruckner suggested to his wife, I'll stay over at the post
office for a while. Maybe I can get some of the men to play
a game of pool and go home about ten o'clock supper being cold, it
won't make any difference, and I'll take some fresh But he never made it.
There was a terrific crash. The little motor launch was rent asunder.
When the detonation died away, there was nothing left but a few pieces of
floating wreckage and curiously, a red ribbon floating on the surface of the sea.
Bruckner and his wife had been blown to atoms. The clock binker had
worked well, and the bomb had gone off precisely as he is planned,
at the hour appointed by Bruckner himself. But the former creator of time pieces
for the Czar was not a man who read the daily papers. In preparing
the bomb and setting the clock, he had not known of the fact that
the daylight savings law for the season went into effect at the stroke of two
that morning. Hence the explosion had occurred one hour earlier than Bruckner had expected
it would six. But simultaneously with the crash that ended the lives of the
Bruckners, two strange men appeared before their little bungalow. The visitors on the
beach looked out to see, not knowing that the criminal they sought was now
beyond their reach. Gosh. One of them exclaimed that gasoline certainly made a
thorough job of it. It won't even be worthwhile to send out a rescue
boat. The other detective shrugged. I'm more interested in what we're likely to
find inside the house, he said, Since nobody seems to be home,
suppose we go right in. They did, and they made a thorough search,
including a chemical analysis of the coffee on the stove and the cold snack
on the table. It was a delicious looking little layout of tempting morsels,
but the chemist who tested it whistled loudly in amazement when his task was finished.
The old girl seems to have been in a hurry to finish this chap,
he announced. She's put enough poison in all this stuff to kill an
elephant. Funny too, because she always worked slowly before before, questioned his
companion Is she one of those fiends who marries a lot of men and murders
them for their insurance? The chemist nodded. She was tried twice and acquitted
for lack of convincing proof, But we've been watching her ever since, and
her mugs in the Rogues Gallery under the alias of our neck Annie. The
End of his Thirteenth Wife by Herbert Raymond Carter