Weekly Short Story

"The Aptness Murder" by Richard Ridyard (continued from the newsletter)

The plan came to Robert easily. Almost too easily. As if, subconsciously, it had been taking shape for a long time. Mr. Walsh had to be killed on a Friday. That's when he was alone in his office all morning. He played poker with some business associates every Thursday and came to work hung over every Friday. He'd instruct Janet, his secretary, that he would be busy and wanted absolutely no interruptions until noon. Busy! Humph! Everyone in the office knew he was sleeping off Thursday night's whiskey. Yes, on Friday while Mr. Walsh was sleeping, that's when Robert would kill him.

Friday morning came and Robert crept into his brother-in-law's room. The lazy waste of space hadn't worked in years. He slept till noon, sat around all day eating and watching television, and then went out partying all night, living off Robert's generosity. Robert never could figure out where he got the money for his nightly ventures out. He was totally worthless - up until now, that is. Worthless Phil kept a loaded pistol in his bureau under his socks. Robert quietly pulled open a drawer, rummaged around for a few seconds, and then slid the drawer shut, having removed a small handgun. As he left the room he looked back at his brother-in-law. Still asleep, naturally.

Breakfast went the way breakfast usually went on alternate Fridays. Robert kept his nose in the newspaper while his wife ranted about the bills that were due, the groceries that had to be bought, and the repairs that had to be made. "And don't forget to cash your cheque right after lunch and deposit the money in our checking account. I don't want any of our checks to bounce. And don't spend any more than you have to on lunch. Last time you bought lunch for your friends at the office and threw our budget way off. When do they ever buy lunch for you? And another thing..."

At least the drive to work was smooth and quiet that day. Robert parked in his space in the basement of the office building and walked up the stairs to the eighth floor where he worked.

Robert had been afraid of elevators ever since he was stuck in one as a child. He was only 8 years old at the time and it was the first time he had ever been in one. What seemed quite exciting and a new adventure turned into his worst nightmare, for when the elevator got half way down it jammed suddenly. Robert became scared that it wasn't moving and that other people in the lift were beginning to become hysterical. Even his parents began to panic although they tried to hide it Robert could see it in their eyes. It took over an hour for the fire brigade to get them out. By that time Robert had become paralysed with fear he could hear his heart beat in his ears he genuinely thought he was going to die. Everyone knew his story and that he never went in them since. That was an important part of his plan.

All morning Robert had to force himself to keep his mind on his work. He kept reminding himself that everything must appear to be normal. Try as he might, though, he couldn't keep his hands from shaking as he wrote out the details of the Lathrop merger. Mr. Walsh came in at nine, as usual, and instructed Janet that he would be very busy and did not want to be disturbed before noon. Just before entering his office, he turned a bloodshot eye to Robert and snarled, "I want to see you after lunch." From the split-second pause in the work being done, Robert knew the others had heard Mr. Walsh's remark.

At eleven-thirty Robert rose from his desk, announced to Janet that he was going to lunch, and made a quiet exit, as he always did. That day, though, instead of turning right and heading toward the stairwell, Robert turned left and walked to the outer entrance of Mr. Walsh's office.

With tensed white knuckles he lightly tapped on the door, one, two, three times. No answer, but then he didn't expect one. Slowly, silently, Robert turned the doorknob, around which he had carefully wrapped a handkerchief. Thanks to books and television, even someone like Robert Beck knew enough to avoid leaving fingerprints. Robert entered the office and closed the door behind him with a light click.

Behind the huge mahogany desk in his genuine leather swivel chair sat Mr. Walsh, puffy eyes closed, podgy hands folded across his stomach. How peaceful he looked in sleep, Robert thought. Last night must have been a bad one; his flaccid face was pasty. Robert trod silently across the carpeted floor until he stood directly in front of Mr. Walsh. Taking the small pistol from his pocket, Robert raised it and aimed it with both hands. The barrel of the little revolver was no more than three feet from his boss's head. Closing his eyes, Robert pulled the trigger.

There was a sharp crack and Mr. Walsh's head recoiled a little, cushioned by the swivel chair's headrest. A small hole appeared in the center of the businessman's forehead.

For an instant Robert froze. He knew Mr. Walsh's office was soundproof, and the pistol made a lot less noise than he had expected, but still he waited for the door to the inner office to open and a curious staff to enter. But the door remained closed. More calmly than he ever believed possible, Robert put the gun back into his pocket and left Mr. Walsh's office, careful again to leave no fingerprints.

Once in the hallway, Robert did something he hadn't done in over thirty years: He got on an elevator. Pressing the button with his elbow to again avoid those telltale prints, Robert held his breath and said several prayers as the mobile room made its way to the garage level of the building.

After leaving the elevator and sighing in relief that he wasn't killed by the mechanical beast, Robert checked his watch. The whole episode had taken just about the same amount of time as walking down the nine flights of stairs from the office. Perfect. Sam, the parking lot guard, hadn't seen Robert leave the elevator, but Robert made sure Sam saw him enter his car. They always exchanged pleasantries, so there was nothing unusual in this, but it did serve to establish the time of Robert's arrival in the parking garage. Robert stuffed his brother-in-law's pistol under a pile of papers in the glove compartment and went about his business as usual - lunch, a trip to the bank to cash his check, and then back to the office.

This time as Robert reached the office after having scaled his daily nine flights of stairs, he was greeted by two uniformed policemen. After explaining who he was and where he had been, Harvey was allowed to enter the office.

Inside there were several more uniformed policemen and three detectives in plain clothes. One of these approached Robert, who by now wore his best look of bewilderment. He had been practicing this at lunch and was confident he could play innocent and confused. The detective asked Robert the questions he expected to hear: Who was he? Where had he gone? Did he usually go to lunch at that time? Did he see anyone in the elevator when he went downstairs? What? Never took the elevator? Well then, did he see anyone on his way down the stairs?

Robert was truly sorry he couldn't be of any help, but he really hadn't seen anyone. No, he didn't know of anyone who might want to kill Mr. Walsh. Oh, no, he and Mr. Walsh never associated socially. Yes, of course Robert understood that they would have to check on everything he said. And on, and on, and on.

That night when Robert walked through the kitchen door, his wife and brother-in-law assaulted him with another barrage of questions. News bulletins of Mr. Walsh's death had been flashing on television all day long. Did Robert see who did it? Did he hear anything? Did the police question him? What did he say?

Robert excused himself, saying he had to change his clothes. Then he'd answer their questions.

Once upstairs, Robert replaced Phil's pistol beneath its camouflage of socks and changed into his leisure clothes. As he walked back downstairs, Robert actually found himself whistling a little tune.

Conversation at dinner that night centered exclusively around the assassination of Mr. Walsh. Robert kept pleading ignorant to all the intimate details of the murder demanded of him by his wife and brother-in-law. They were more than a little disgruntled with his lack of knowledge about the affair.

"Really! A man is murdered right under your nose and you don't know anything about it. No wonder people call you dull. Weren't you even a little bit interested? Not even enough to ask a few questions? Well, honestly, at least you could have thought about me. You know I love this sort of thing. Why couldn't you at least have..."

Robert's normal bedtime was ten o'clock, but that Friday he decided to stay up and watch the late news. That's when he got the first shock.

A neatly dressed newsman read from sheets of yellow paper, "A startling revelation in the Walsh murder case had just been made public. The city coroner, in an official statement, told reporters that an autopsy has shown that whoever shot the businessman did not technically commit murder since Walsh had died an hour or so earlier of a massive coronary. His would-be assassin shot his dead body. Police, however, are still..."

Robert's jaw fell open and he stared at the T.V in a trance.

All that planning - all the chances he took - for nothing. For nothing! That fool of a boss had killed himself with his drunkenness and late hours. A power far greater than Robert Beck had apparently shared Robert's idea that Mr. Walsh had abused for too long the privilege of living. The one time Robert had managed to muster up enough courage to do something daring, important, drastic, fate beat him to it. Robert Beck was a truly disappointed man. The only consolation he could find in the whole situation was that even though his plan had proved unnecessary, it was still a foolproof one. He had been meticulous in his execution of his strategy. He'd never be caught. He had foreseen every possible pitfall and had avoided them all.

That's when the second shock came.

"Robert!" His wife said in an agitated voice as she shook him out of his trance. "That was the police on the phone. My brother's been arrested for the rape and death of two women. Apparantly he killed and raped them in thier own homes. He claims someone told him to do it. And guess what they said about the gun he used?"

 

Copyright © 2008, Blue Moose Press, a subsidiary of Blue Moose Films, LLC

Template Design by FEEE CSS TEMPLATES | Valid XHTML | Valid CSS