Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (216 page)

"Come
on,"
said
Alice,
taking
her
arm.
They
went
down
to
the kitchen.

Mrs.
Crowley
found
the
butler
in
the
kitchen,
just
standing
there. "It's
all
right,
Madison,"
she
said.
"You
go
back
to
bed.
Tell
Clotheta it's
all
right.
Mr.
Andrews
is
just
shooting
a
little.
He
couldn't
sleep."

"Yes,
ma'am,"
mumbled
Madison,
and
went
back
to
tell
his
wife that
they
said
it
was
all
right.

"It
can't
be
right,"
said
Clotheta,
"shootin'
pistols
at
this
time
of night."

"Hush
up,"
Madison
told
her.
He
was
shivering
as
he
climbed back
into
bed.

"I
wish
dat
man
would
go
'way
from
heah,"
grumbled
Clotheta. "He's
got
a
bad
look
to
his
eyes."

Andrews
brightened
Clotheta's
life
by
going
away
late
that
afternoon.
When
he
and
his
wife
got
in
their
car
and
drove
off,
the
Crow-leys
slumped
into
chairs
and
looked
at
each
other
and
said,
"Well." Crowley
got
up
finally
to
mix
a
drink.
"What
do
you
think
is
the matter
with
Harry?"
he
asked.

"I
don't
know,"
said
his
wife.
"It's
what
Clotheta
would
call
the shoots,
I
suppose."

"He
said
a
funny
thing
when
I
went
out
and
got
him
this
morning," Crowley
told
her.

"I
could
stand
a
funny
thing,"
she
said.

"I
asked
him
what
the
hell
he
was
doing
there
in
that
freezing air
with
only
his
pants
and
shirt
and
shoes
on.
Til
get
him
one
of these
nights,'
he
said."

"Why
don't
you
sleep
in
my
room
tonight?"
Mrs.
Andrews
asked her
husband
as
he
finished
his
Scotch-and-water
nightcap.

"You'd
keep
shaking
me
all
night
to
keep
me
awake,"
he
said. "You're
afraid
to
let
me
meet
him.
Why
do
you
always
think
everybody
else
is
better
than
I
am?
I
can
outshoot
him
the
best
day
he ever
lived.
Furthermore,
I
have
a
modem
pistol.
He
has
to
use
an
old-fashioned
single-shot
muzzle-loader."
Andrews
laughed
nastily.

"Is
that
quite
fair?"
his
wife
asked
after
a
moment
of
thoughtful silence.

He
jumped
up
from
his
chair.
"What
do
I
care
if
it's
fair
or
not?" he
snarled.

She
got
up
top.
"Don't
be
mad
with
me,
Harry,"
she
said.
There were
tears
in
her
eyes.

"I'm
sorry,
darling,"
he
said,
taking
her
in
his
arms. "I'm
very
unhappy,"
she
sobbed.

"I'm
sorry,
darling,"
he
said
again.
"Don't
you
worry
about
me. I'll
be
all
right.
I'll
be
fine."
She
was
crying
too
wildly
to
say
anything more.

When
she
kissed
him
good
night
later
on
she
knew
it
was
really good-by.
Women
have
a
way
of
telling
when
you
aren't
coming
back.

"Extraordinary,"
said
Dr.
Fox
the
next
morning,
letting
Andrews' dead
left
hand
fall
back
upon
the
bed.
"His
heart
was
as
sound
as
a dollar
when
I
examined
him
the
other
day.
It
has
just
stopped
as
if he
had
been
shot."

Mrs.
Andrews,
through
her
tears,
was
looking
at
her
dead
husband's right
hand.
The
three
fingers
next
to
the
index
finger
were
closed in
stiffly
on
the
palm,
as
if
gripping
the
handle
of
a
pistol.
The
taut thumb
was
doing
its
part
to
hold
that
invisible
handle
tightly
and unwaveringly.
But
it
was
the
index
finger
that
Mrs.
Andrews'
eyes stayed
on
longest.
It
was
only
slightly
curved
inward,
as
if
it
were just
about
to
press
the
trigger
of
the
pistol.
"Harry
never
even
fired
a shot,"
wailed
Mrs.
Andrews.
"Aaron
Burr
killed
him
the
way
he
killed Hamilton.
Aaron
Burr
shot
him
through
the
heart.
I
knew
he
would. I
knew
he
would."

Dr.
Fox
put
an
arm
about
the
hysterical
woman
and
led
her
from the
room.
"She
is
crazy,"
he
said
to
himself.
"Stark,
raving
crazy."