Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Her frustration turned to anger. A thousand times she had told Charles it was stupid to keep a key underneath the mat. Why hadn’t he listened? After fifteen years of marriage, why couldn’t he just once—

Someone was knocking at the front door. “Come!” Myra tried to shout. But the shout was really a groan, not much more than a whisper. “Come!” she said again, but her voice was even weaker.

She waited. It would be Mrs. Armstrong, from across the street, coming to borrow something. Mrs. Armstrong was a withered, bony little woman who was none too bright, but at least she would know enough to call an ambulance.

Myra’s lips moved. “Come in, Mrs. Armstrong. Come on in and borrow anything you want. I’m sorry I said that last night. I don’t care if you never get organized. Just come in and save my life!”

The knocking stopped. Minutes passed, and Myra waited for footsteps to come around the side of the house to the door that led in from the carport. They didn’t. They simply faded away.

“You idiot!” Myra cried, getting up to her elbows again. “Couldn’t you see the car? You knew I must be home. Why didn’t you come to the side door? You could have seen through the window!”

The phone began to ring. That would be Charles, calling to tell her he’d be late again. She looked up at it gratefully. Oh, Charles. Wonderful, wonderful Charles!

She ground her teeth and began to crawl again. Slowly and painfully she went, leaving a trail of warm blood behind her. By the end of the fourth ring she was under the instrument, desperately trying to pull her useless legs into a use-able position. A yard above her head the phone continued to ring, four more times, five, six.

“I’m coming!” she tried to scream, clutching and clawing at the smooth yellow wall dancing in front of her. At last, she made it. Her legs were uncertain but they were under her, and she snatched the receiver from the hook just in time to hear a click.

“Charles,” she murmured. “Charles!”

The dial tone answered her.

Myra Saunders sank to the floor again, crying silently. “Damn you, Charles. Damn you! You knew I’d be here. I’m always here, fixing dinner for you. How could you hang up!”

The clock chimed for half past five. One more hour to go. Surely, he’d come at 6:30. Surely, he wouldn’t be late tonight, when he hadn’t been able to reach her.

Above her head, the receiver dangled and the dial tone buzzed on. Myra closed her eyes, counted twenty heartbeats and opened her eyes again when she heard the sound of voices.

For the first time she realized that it had stopped raining, and the kids next door were playing in their yard.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Myra breathed. “Mark! Mason! Come help me. Bring your friends. Come over in my yard and up to the window and find me. Let your ball hit against my house. I won’t take it away. I promise.”

The side door was now about four feet from her, and from this angle, she could see that it wasn’t quite closed. The man must have slammed it so hard it had bounced back open again. She had to get to get to it!

Her hopes soared, and she began to crawl one more. The voices were like music — young, high voices, not quite ready to change. There must have been five or six of them. She could even hear the crack of bat on ball, and just as she got to the door, there was a resounding thump. The ball had hit her house.

Ignoring the pain, she scrambled the last few inches, got to her knees and threw the door open, lunged through it, felt the wound open wider as she scraped across the threshold and down the little step into the carport.

“Boys,” she whimpered. “Boys!”

A pair of running dungarees crossed her line of vision. A cry rang out. “We’d better get out of here!”

There was the sound of running feet again, then silence. They had probably knocked down a plant or put a dirty mark on her house. And then the little brats had run!

Fresh tears ran down Myra’s cheeks. Her head throbbed; her elbows were on fire. She could hear the cars going by on the street. Men — more faithful men than Charles — were hurrying home from their offices. Flighty, frivolous women were rushing home from bridge in time to stick frozen dinners in their ovens. Her shoulders jerked with sobs.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why?”

No one looked her way. No one stopped or even slowed. She knew they wouldn’t. Not one single, solitary Good Samaritan lived on Sandcastle Lane.

Movement finally caught her eye. She was lying face down, sandwiched between her car and the door, in front of a screen breezeway through which she could see across her own backyard and the Hartmans’ and on into the Hartman house.

Myra’s pulse began to quicken. Beth Hartman was standing behind that door and waving.

“Beth!” Myra breathed. “Beth! I should have known you’d help me.”

It had been nearly six months since she and Beth Hartman had spoken, but Beth wouldn’t hold a grudge at a time like this. Not just because Myra had poisoned their cat! After all, Myra’s was a human life!