Double Jeopardy (15 page)

There are some of you who hold that suicide takes a great deal of courage and some to whom it appears a very cowardly act. I am not in a position to argue the point. I merely tell you that I no longer cared to live and the sooner I ceased living the better I would like it.

But I did not sit down and brood like some twentieth century Hamlet. I did not over-dramatize my plight. I only realized that I was unhappy, broke, without friends or family, and with nothing whatever to look forward to but continued mental depression. I had read that ex-convicts find it extremely difficult to find positions and, although I was a registered pharmacist, I had no references to show a prospective employer.

So what else was there for me to do?

If I'd been young, I would no doubt have tried to hold on. When I was twenty, life was precious and I thoroughly enjoyed being alive. But remember that upon my release from prison I had just passed my forty-sixth birthday. You will recall the day, for that was the night of the Hindenburg disaster.

I had given considerable thought to the subject of a suitable agent which would bring about my end. I did not want to suffer if I could possibly avoid it. I suppose that I could easily have managed to obtain some sort of poison but I ruled this out immediately. Only a physician or an apothecary can appreciate how terrible a death by poison can be. Of course there are any number of mythical concoctions which the writers of detective stories profess will result in instantaneous death. Well, maybe I'm wrong, but if such poisons exist or at least are stocked in drugstores, I have never handled any. The poisonous substances I have come into contact with in my work all entail a minimum of several minutes of intense pain while the drug stops the heart or eats away the organs of the body.

So I chose a gun.

I decided this while sitting in my tiny hotel room, just off Times Square. Looking around at the bare, cracked walls, the peeling plaster and the single, dirty window, it struck me that this was as fitting a room for a suicide as one would be able to find. Still, I would be unable to use it. Since I would, of necessity, have to procure a pistol, I would hardly have enough money left to stay there another night. I would have to die in the park, or in some alleyway.

It was while I sat in that room, pondering the problem of where I might be able to get hold of a gun, that someone knocked on my door. I opened it and a girl stepped in, closing the door behind her. I gaped at her.

“Hello,” she smiled.

“Hello,” I answered her. “You must have the wrong room.” I saw that she was well dressed and with a supple figure; her face, while not pretty, was pleasant and carefully made-up. “This is Room 264, you know.”

“I know,” she laughed, revealing white, though slightly crooked teeth. “Well? Aren't you going to ask me to come in?”

“You're in already,” I observed. Then, for the first time in months, I felt the need of her—; the need of any woman. Usually, in prison, this would sweep over me only once in a great while. It would last less than a week and then it would pass on, leaving me enervated. But now my fingers yearned for the feel of her and my knees grew unsteady. “Will you smoke a cigarette?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

She accepted one. My hand shook a little as I held the match. Puffing away, she sat down on the bed, close to my chair. I could smell her perfume and the faint female odor of her clothes. My head swam.

Of course I knew that she was a prostitute. Her presence in my room was merely an effort to solicit trade. But she was a woman. Mentally, I counted up my money. No, there would not be enough for this. The remaining few dollars would barely buy me a gun. I balanced the gun against the woman. I chose the gun.

“I like you,” she murmured after a moment of silence. “But that, as Shakespeare says, is not the question. Do you like me?”

“I'm... I'm broke,” I stammered.

Her face fell a little. “Well, I didn't expect to find Rockefeller in here, you know. I don't ask much....”

“I'm sorry. I haven't a penny to spare. I won't have this room tomorrow,” I confessed.

The girl rose from the bed abruptly and started for the door. In desperation, I got to it first and put my back to it. “Please don't go,” I begged. “If you only knew how much I want you to stay!”

“Sorry, buddy. I'm no charity worker. You've got to lay it on the line.”

“Listen,” I whispered hoarsely. “Don't you see? I haven't had... haven't had a woman in eighteen years!”

She looked at me skeptically for a second; then a curiosity came into her eyes. “What were you, mister?” she asked. “Priest, prisoner or pauper?”

I told her.

“I've got a brother in stir. All right. I'm a sap for falling for your baloney. But make it fast.”

“Thanks,” I groaned, taking her into my arms.

“Hurry up.”

In the morning I looked up Doctor Carpenter in the telephone directory. I located a CARPENTER L. MD with an East 70th street address and I called the number to ask the party's first name. It was Leo all right but he wasn't at home. The girl—;informing me that she was the doctor's secretary—;instructed me to call again at three o'clock. When she asked me to please leave my name, I hung up. I was afraid that Carpenter might not want to see me.

Thoroughly worn out, I walked along Eighth Avenue looking for a pawn shop. Two places, when I entered and asked to see a revolver, demanded that I produce my police permit; but in the third, the old fellow beckoned to me to follow him to the rear. He sold me an old .38 Colt automatic for six dollars and threw in a box of fifty cartridges to boot.

“Now remember, mister, I never sold you that gun, see? You never saw me before in all your life.”

“I never saw you before in all my life,” I assured him. “And thanks loads. I won't forget it in a hurry.”

The old fellow threw up his hands. “Forget it! Forget it! Never mind remembering!”

Emerging from the shop with the pistol in my pocket, I found that I still had four hours to kill before the doctor would be in. I wanted to see him before I took the fatal plunge because there was ever so faint a chance that he might know something which would throw light onto Anita's death. Tom Murphy was not a person either to imagine or to exaggerate. If he was telling the truth, there might be some reason why Carpenter insisted that I was innocent. His remark, “They'll never find the body,” might have meant no more than a disdainful opinion of the police.... But it was worth trying.

I don't think that I would have considered suicide had I in some way managed to solve the question that had been worrying my mind for so many years. Even if I had discovered myself guilty. For if I
had
murdered Anita, it must have been done in a moment of insanity, during which time I could not hold myself responsible for the deed. I loved my wife. I had had nothing whatever to gain by her death. I had not insured her life. I told the insurance agents who had called this to my attention that, in the event of Anita's death, no amount of money could possibly compensate me for her loss.

I spent the next three hours in a movie, trying my utmost to stay awake. I no longer had enough for a hotel room, having given all but a dollar of the money remaining for the gun. Although sleep would have been welcome to me after the adventure of the night before, I reasoned that if I dozed off, I might not awaken in time to see the doctor. If I missed him at his home, it would mean a night of wandering the streets, of dozing in subways or sleeping in the park. Hence, I stayed awake by prodding myself each time my head drooped forward onto my chest. Also, I am afraid that I made a nuisance of myself by asking someone next to me the time every now and then.

Doctor Carpenter had an apartment in a neat, two-family brownstone house between Park and Lexington. Entering the tiny vestibule on the ground floor, I saw his name on a little white card under a brass bell. I rang and in a few seconds, a uniformed maid ushered me into a foyer.

“Is Doctor Carpenter at home?”

“Is he expecting you?”

I admitted that he was not.

“Then it won't be possible for the doctor to see you today. He's very busy in the study and left word that he was not to be disturbed. Why don't you telephone him tomorrow morning and make an appointment?” The maid was young and smiled pleasantly.

“But I'm a personal friend of the doctor's. I've.... I've just come in from out of town and...”

“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, if you'll give me your name, I'll take it in to...” She interrupted herself suddenly and bowed to someone over my shoulder. I turned and saw a woman entering the front door. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Carpenter. The man called about the rugs. I told him to call later.”

The woman was veiled so that as she brushed past me, I could not see her face. “Thank you. Lily. Is the doctor in the study?”

“Yes, he is, Mrs. Carpenter. Mr. Miller just left.”

The woman opened the door at the far end of the living-room and went inside. As in a trance, I moved after her. In my ears I could hear Lily's voice call sharply: “You can't go in there!” but I did not stop. The floor of the living-room was waxed and slippery and one of the smaller scatter rugs shot out under my feet.

I recovered my balance and, as I was opening the door of the study, I felt the maid's arm touch my sleeve. I shook it off and entered the room.

Doctor Carpenter was seated at a large desk near a French door that led out into a sort of garden or yard. He had his arm about the waist of the woman who stood beside his chair. For a moment, as the sunlight glared in my eyes, I could not make out anything more than the two silhouettes. Then... I knew.

Both of them looked up as the door clicked shut behind me. They had been talking; now they fell silent. The doctor slowly rose to his feet and Anita—;for I was sure it was she—; started back and stifled a little cry of fear.

“Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter,” I said.

Just then the maid opened the door and looked toward the doctor for instructions. I saw him hesitate. I knew, of course, that he did not wish to be left with me and he opened his mouth to say something. Then he closed it and his shoulders sagged perceptibly. In this attitude, he looked old and I noticed that his hair was iron-gray.

“It's all right, Lily. We don't want to be disturbed.” The doctor's voice sounded hollow and dry. He seemed to be choking, almost.

“But the man about the rugs. What will I tell him when he calls?”

“Tell him... tell him anything. And if anyone comes, have them wait outside.”

“Yes, doctor.”

As the maid closed the door behind her, I looked over at Anita. Somehow I couldn't get used to the idea that she was really there. It was like seeing a ghost in broad daylight. But it was the spectre who was afraid. Through her veil I could see wide, terror-stricken eyes.

I suppose that this story I am telling is disappointing because I am incapable of detailing or classifying my emotions. I do not think that this is my fault so much as it is the fault of the emotions. During the tense portions of my life they were never clearly defined and often I experienced many freakish feelings: combinations of two or three emotions at once. So far, I have given you only bare facts and left you to imagine the gamut I have run. Sorrow, fear, love and morbidity have all played important parts in my life. But—;whether you choose to accept this statement or not—;although I have often been very angry, I can't remember ever having hated anyone. And as I stood there in the study, looking across the room at the two by the desk, I did not nurse any hatred.

Of course I know that it sounds a bit thick. I certainly had every reason to hate them both, and the much-publicized fact that my pocket contained a loaded revolver seems to indicate that I went to the doctor's home prepared to commit a murder. Truthfully, I did not. The revolver, as I have already explained, was intended only for myself.

Well, if the doctor and Anita looked frightened and ashamed, I must have looked bewildered. Try to picture it for yourselves. Here was my wife... alive! For the past eighteen years I had been mourning her loss. I had overtaxed my mind in attempting to pierce the heavy cloak of mystery which had surrounded her death.

I didn't know what to think. Such a climax could not happen in real life! We were not characters in a book or in the movies! But, after the first shock of hearing her voice, I felt a great load lifted from my shoulders. The knowledge that I had not killed her was evidently the panacea for all my suffering. Soon, however, I began to recover my stunned faculties; I began to wonder....

She had been called, “Mrs. Carpenter” by the maid. Since she wasn't dead, where had she been? Why hadn't she come forward at the time I was arrested?

I was totally confused as I faced the two of them on that afternoon of September 9th. So stupefied was I, it was not until Anita began to plead with me and to pour out a tearful confession that I fully realized what a contemptible trick had been played upon me. I stood there stiffly as she tugged at my coat lapels and the picture became clearer gradually. I could see her sitting in the garden that evening many years ago. She was furious because she wanted me to sell the store and move to New York—;which wish I had refused....

“Oh, don't you understand, Peter? I've always been in love with Leo! I married you, yes. I know I shouldn't have done it. But you caught me at a time when I was too angry at him to think! I liked you, Peter. Please believe that! Yes, I did like you a lot. But was it my fault that I never loved you?”

I glanced quickly at the doctor. He was slumped over his desk with his face buried in his hands. I could see the cords of his neck, thick and tight, disappearing into his wilted shirt collar. Sheets of typewritten manuscript had slipped to the floor unnoticed. I felt jealous of him; then, suddenly, a wave of pity for him drove off the first. He, too, must have suffered. He, too, must have been tortured mentally all those years I wasted away in prison. It occurred to me that it had not been his doing.
He
had not wanted me to pay for a crime I never committed. What he had been heard saying at the trial was proof of that. But Anita....