Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

Around six that evening he garaged the car and entered the house via the front door. He unlatched it and called upstairs.

“Grace?”

“Oh, Alec!” she said. “Come up, won’t you?”

“I thought I’d go over to the studio for a little while.”

She came to the head of the stairs. “Now? On your birthday? When I’m wearing my necklace just for you? Please — at least come up and look.”

“Sure,” he said amiably, and he climbed the staircase.

She was wearing a long, velvet gown, and he blinked. “You’re all dressed up.”

“I have to be, when I wear this,” she said, touching the necklace. “Isn’t it nice?”

“Very.”

“I thought we might go out to dinner. Would you like to?”

He hesitated before answering. In order to give himself plenty of time to bum the weapon and possibly some other articles along with it, he’d counted on not “discovering” the body until midnight. Furthermore, he’d visualized it as being found in a dressing gown and he’d expected to say that she’d retired early, while he’d gone over to his studio. But now, seeing the way she was dressed, he saw that he’d have to change the original plan and advance his time schedule.

So be it, he thought. He’d manage.

“Dinner out will be fine,” he said. “I’ll make a reservation.”

“I already did,” she said. “Nine o’clock, at the Hermitage.”

Again he made his calculations. Kill her at a quarter of eight, then wait until eight for Toosh to arrive. Then over to the studio in order to clean up and dispose of the weapon. He’d discover the body at eight-thirty and call the police at once. Nothing wrong with that, provided Toosh came promptly. But could Alec rely on that? He decided he had to.

“You think of everything,” he said to Grace, with excessive politeness. “I’d better shower and get dressed.”

“That will be nice,” she said.

He agreed.

At seven-fifteen he took the teak piano leg from his closet. Barefoot, he tiptoed down the back stairs and, walking softly, he entered the big living room. He placed the weapon next to the couch, where it would be out of sight. Then, still moving stealthily, he returned to the rear stairs and went up to his room. At seven-thirty he emerged again, but noisily, whistling raucously.

“Grace?” he called out. “Ready?”

“But it’s so early. We can’t go yet.”

“I know. Let’s sit down in the living room and wait. I like it there.”

“That would be nice,” she said.

The living room, ample enough to seat a dozen guests comfortably, was in semi-darkness. The street lamp, casting a series of beams through three long windows, struck the coffee table, the near end of the couch and the mahogany secretary-desk. Grace started to switch on the lights, but he stopped her.

“No. Wait a minute.”

She obeyed, but in the dim light, her expression seemed strangely hesitant. “Why, Alec? Why?”

“Come here,” he said.

She advanced towards him, not quite smiling, sensing that he wanted something unusual from her and hoping it would be pleasant.

“Turn around a moment,” he said. “Your dress — isn’t it tom?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, “but—”

When her back was to him, he struck. She fell with scarcely a sound, and he clubbed her again, twice, until he was certain she was dead. Then he took the gloves from his pocket and leaned down to unfasten the necklace, but the gloves were too thick and too awkward for him to manipulate the delicate catch.

He took them off and noticed the blood on them. They’d have to be burnt, along with the piano leg. Luckily it was a cool evening, lighting a fire in his studio wouldn’t look suspicious, and if later on the police decided to take the fire apart and sift the remains, the gloves would be indistinguishable ashes and the weapon would be just one more charred log. He had nothing to worry about.

Nevertheless his hands shook. The light was bad and he couldn’t see how the catch worked. Suddenly, in a flash of rage, he ripped at the necklace and tore it off, scratching her skin and jerking up her head. It thumped down, and he staggered back.

He was breathing heavily and he began talking to himself. “Take it easy. Nothing to worry about. Everything is like she’d want it to be — real nice!”

At the word, he let out a guffaw of laughter, but he cut himself off at once. Still, the momentary outburst steadied him, and he went about the rest of his business as unemotionally as if it was a daily chore. Walk over to the coffee table and place the necklace on the edge, squarely in the light. Return to the couch and move it, so that the body will be screened off. Then sit down and wait.

It was twenty of eight. What do you do while you sit near the body of your wife and wait for a thief to come in and help himself to a piece of jewelry?