A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

In stories and in television pictures men are continuously charging against guns and their holders, and overthrowing both; but in real life it doesn’t work that way. The only kind of man who would charge a pointed gun is not a brave man, but a fool.

“Now start getting undressed for bed, just like you would any other night. Put your things where you always put them.”

Dade discarded his outer clothes, seeming to have twenty fingers that got in each other’s way. He stood there holding the garments up like a jittering clothes-tree.

“Where do you put your coat and pants ordinarily, on other nights?” Killare demanded impatiently. He had to lean toward Dade’s ear a little to ask it, so that, ludicrously, it made it seem as if the information imparted was a secret.

“I put the coat on a hanger in the closet, and I attach the pants by their cuffs to that pants holder on the side of the door.”

“Well, do it, then. Don’t stand looking at me.”

After Dade had swung open the closet door, Killare kicked a chair over against it to hold it pinned back, so that Dade couldn’t suddenly shut himself into the closet away from the gun.

“Don’t you take things out of your pockets?” he said sarcastically. “I do.”

Dade dumped out a pocket key-case with a snapdown cover, a wallet, a fistful of loose change, a ball-point pen, a warped package of cigarettes, a clean handkerchief, an unclean handkerchief, and two books of matches, all onto the dresser top. One rebellious quarter rolled off and landed on the floor.

“Let it lie there,” Killare instructed. “Looks more natural.”

“Now what do you do with your shirt?” he prodded, like a headmaster in some boy’s prep school trying to teach personal neatness. Only in this case the penalty wasn’t a demerit; it was death.

“I put on a fresh one every morning, so I just throw the used one across a chair.”

“Just throw it across a chair, then. And your necktie?”

“I change according to the shirt. So I just spread it out on the dresser, until I’m ready to take out another.”

“Spread it out on the dresser, then. Now get into your pajamas.” Dade turned a little to one side, self-conscious about stripping in front of a stranger.

“Now go over to the desk there. Sit down and put on the desk light...

“Now take out a sheet of notepaper, an envelope, and a pen...

“What’s your wife’s first name?”

Dade shuddered uncontrollably; you could only see it from the back, the way he was sitting.

“Patricia,” he whispered, as though he were all out of breath.

“Turn around. I can’t hear you on account of the water.”

Dade turned and said it again. He looked as if the thought of her was making him feel ready to cry.

“What do you call her around the house?”

“Pat.”

“Then write this: ‘Dear Pat—’ ”

Dade wrote, Killare back of his shoulder reading as he wrote. “ ‘It’s no use, I can’t go on—’ How long you been married?”

“Fifteen years.” He said it with what sounded like a sob, but with the water pounding in the bathroom you couldn’t tell; it might have been a wet-hiccough sound.

“ ‘—after fifteen years. To have you tell me you’re in love with someone else and want to leave me is more than I can take.’ ”

Dade flashed him a white look over one shoulder, then turned back again, as the gun suggested with an almost imperceptible lift.

“ ‘I’m going to let you have your freedom, Pat, but not the way you think. This way.’ ”

Killare arched his back to scan what had been written.

“Make your handwriting shake a little more,” he criticized. “It looks too steady.”

“I don’t know how, on purpose,” Dade said with a haggard face.

“Try it. This ought to help you do it.” Killare twisted the bore of the gun, like an awl, flush against the nape of Dade’s cringing neck. The next specimen of handwriting came out spidery and agitated.

“ ‘I love you, Goodbye.’...

“Now sign your first name...

“Now fold it over and put it in the envelope...

“Now seal the flap...

“Now write on the outside: ‘Kindly deliver to my wife.’...

“What’s that on your finger, a wedding ring? Take it off and put it on the envelope.”

Dade had a hard time with it. “It hasn’t been off in fifteen years,” he said wistfully.

“Spit on it,” Killare ordered.

It came off with a jerk.

“Now have you got a snapshot of her in your wallet? Go over and get it.”

Dade tried to show it to him on the way back, as if hoping it would soften him. Killare didn’t look at it.

“Put that on top of the note too...

“All right, that’ll do it. Now come over here and sit down on the edge of the bed. No, don’t turn the covers down, you’re not going to get into it.”

Dade was unmanageably crying by now. His eyes were bright, and a shiny puddle had gathered in each comer without spilling over. The sight of the ring and the snapshot had probably hit him in his weakest spot.

“Die like a man,” Killare said scathingly. “Not like a sniffling schoolboy. It only takes a minute to die. What’s so big about it?

“Now swing your legs up onto the bed. That’s it. Take off the top one of those two pillows, and hand it over to me.”