Speaker 1: 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