Speaker 1: 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