The Best American Noir of the Century

I shivered and closed my eyes. There was no emotion in me anymore — only a numbness that would never really go away.

His unsteady voice went on and on. “She must have died instantly. The whole front of her face…My mind began to work fast. If I could make the police think it was my wife who had died in the accident, then I could hide Helen’s body and nobody would know. That way Donna would be the one missing and they’d ask you questions, not me.

“The wreckage was saturated with gasoline. I — I threw a match into it. The fire couldn’t hurt her, Clay. She was already dead. I swear it. Then I went up to the car and looked through it for something of Helen’s I could leave near the scene.

“I came back here,” he went on tonelessly, “and hid Helen’s body. And all the time thoughts kept spinning through my head. Nobody must doubt that it was Helen in that car. If I could just convince you that Donna was not only alive after the accident, but that she had gone away…

“It came to me almost at once. I don’t know from where. Maybe when staying alive depends on quick thinking, another part of your mind takes over. Miss Kemper would have to help me —”

I waved a hand, stopping him. “I know all about that. She told me. And for Christ’s sake stop calling her Miss Kemper! You’ve been sleeping with her — remember?”

He was staring at me. “She told you? Why? I was sure —”

“You made a mistake,” I said. “That note you signed Donna’s name to was typed on the office machine. When I found that out I called on your Miss Kemper. She told me enough to get me started on the right track.”

The gun was very steady in his hand now. Hollows deepened under his cheeks. “You — you told the police?”

“Certainly.”

He shook his head. “No. You didn’t tell them. They would be here now if you had.” He stood up slowly, with a kind of quiet agony. “I’m sorry, Clay.”

My throat began to tighten. “The hell with being sorry. I know. I’m the only one left. The only one who can put you in that gas chamber out at San Quentin. Now you make it number three.”

His face seemed strangely at peace. “I’ve told you what happened. I wanted you to hear it from me, exactly the way it happened. I wanted you to know I couldn’t deliberately kill anyone.”

He turned the gun around and reached out and laid it in my hand. He said, “I suppose you had better call the police now.”

I looked stupidly down at the gun and then back at him. He had forgotten me. He settled back on the couch and put his hands gently down on his knees and stared past me at the night sky beyond the windows.

I wanted to feel sorry for him. But I couldn’t. It was too soon. Maybe some day I would be able to.

After a while I got up and went into the bedroom and put through the call.

1953 MICKEY SPILLANE THE LADY SAYS DIE!