Tickled to Death and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense Read Free Page A

then that he knew he had to murder her, and had to do it quickly, before the meeting with her solicitor which she had mentioned when confronting him with the detective’s report. Larry Renshaw had no intention of being divorced from his wife’s money.
    As soon as he had made the decision, the murder plan that he had shut up in the Left Luggage locker of his subconscious was revealed by a simple turn of a key. It was so simple, he glowed from the beauty of it.
    He went through it again as he sat in the cab on the way to Abbey Road. The timing was perfect; there was no way it could fail.
    Every three months Lydia spent four days at a health farm. The aim was not primarily to dry her out, but to put a temporary brake on the runaway deterioration of her physical charms. However, the strictness of the fashionable institution chosen to take on this hopeless task meant that the visit did have the side-effect of keeping her off alcohol for its duration. The natural consequence of this was that on the afternoon of her return she would, regular as clockwork, irrigate her parched system with at least half a bottle of gin.
    And that was all the plan needed. His instinct told him it could not fail.
    He had made the preparations that morning, almost joyously. He had whistled softly as he worked. There was so little to do. Crush up the pills into the gin bottle, place the suicide note in the desk drawer and set out to spend his day in company. No part of that day was to be unaccounted for. Gaston’s Bar was only the last link in a long chain of alibis.
    During the day, he had probed at the plan, testing it for weaknesses, and found none.
    Suppose Lydia thought the gin tasted funny . . .? She wouldn’t, in her haste. Anyway, in her descriptions of the previous attempt, she had said there was no taste. It had been, she said, just like drinking it neat, and getting gently drowsier and drowsier. A quiet end. Not an unattractive one.
    Suppose the police found out about the private detective and the appointment with the solicitor . . .? Wouldn’t they begin to suspect the dead woman’s husband . . .? No, if anything that strengthened his case. Disillusioned by yet another man, depressed by the prospect of yet another divorce, she had taken the quickest way out. True, it didn’t put her husband in a very good light, but Larry was not worried about that. So long as he inherited, he didn’t care what people thought.
    Suppose she had already made a will which disinherited him . . .? But no, he knew she hadn’t. That was what she had set up with the solicitor for the next day. And Larry had been present when she made her previous will that named him, her husband, as sole legatee.
    No, his instinct told him nothing could go wrong.
    He paid off the taxi-driver, and told him an Irish joke he had heard in the course of the day. He then went into their block of flats, told the porter the same Irish joke, and asked if he could check the right time. Eight-seventeen. Never had there been a better-documented day.
    As he went up in the lift, he wondered if the final refinement to the plan had happened. It wasn’t essential, but it would have been nice. Lydia’s sister had said she would drop round for the evening. If she could actually have discovered the body . . . Still, she was notoriously bad about time and you can’t have everything. But it would be nice. . . .
    Everything played into his hands. On the landing he met a neighbour just about to walk his chihuahua. Larry greeted them cheerfully and checked the time. His confidence was huge. He enjoyed being a criminal mastermind.
    For the benefit of the departing neighbour and because he was going to play the part to the hilt, he called out cheerily, “Good evening, darling!” as he unlocked the front door.
    â€œGood evening,
darling,
” said Lydia.
    As soon as he saw her, he knew that she knew everything. She sat poised on the sofa and on the glass