HEARTTHROB

I so detest pushy people, don't you? I mean the
kind of people who just won't let you be alone, but who insist on
forcing themselves upon you. Duane Winsome was such a person, but he
learned his lesson. In any event, I think he did… he certainly
should
have... In the Los Angeles office building where Duane
Winsome worked, he knew almost all of the young ladies by name, the
pretty ones at least. He had dated most of them, not that they had
willingly gone out with him. It was just that, well, he was that type
of man. He simply wouldn't take no for an answer. He was a
good-looking young man and intelligent too, but he did have one
serious blind spot in his makeup. He simply could not comprehend that
there was any woman on this earth, let alone Los Angeles, who would
not want to spend an evening with one Duane Winsome.

So it was with his usual arrogance that he carried his tray to a
particular table in the building's ground-floor cafeteria and sat
down uninvited across from the raven-haired young woman who seemed to
be toying with her cup of black coffee. He was, of course, quick to
introduce himself, and just as quick to observe aloud that he'd not
seen her here before. She on her part merely said that she didn't
work in the building. She just thought she'd try out the food here.
Her eyes, however, communicated the fact that she wished Duane
Winsome would take his tray and himself to some other table. Or they
would have communicated that fact — to anyone other than Duane
Winsome. On his part, he was eager for a date with this lovely —
which she really was. It was only when she refused to accompany him
that evening to, in order of mention, a movie, a stage show, a
friend's party, a walk about town, and an evening at home — his —
that he thought to ask the young lady why. Did she already have an
engagement? Perhaps tomorrow night would be better?

No, she told him. She had no engagement tonight, but — no —
tomorrow night would be no better. It was her mother. Her voice
tinkled like notes from a dainty silver bell as she told him: "I
can go out with no one until Mother gives her approval, and for the
tune being she has had her fill of my men friends."

"But she has not met
me!"
Duane
insisted, satisfying himself that it would be not much of a chore to
set the girl's mother at ease. No doubt the old woman's interest was
right in terms of some of the riff - raff who probably pushed
themselves at her lovely daughter's feet. But he, after all, was
Duane Winsome. The mother, as well as the daughter, would recognize
his intrinsic qualities. Yet the girl seemed unsure. Nonetheless, he
advanced his argument forcefully — with the fullness of his force,
that is — and finally the girl could do little except stare
open-mouthed at his power. He knew the moment when it came, knew that
he'd be accompanying her home this evening. And after that... well,
he would see about that.

Indeed he would.

When the taxi dropped them in front of the old wooden building in an
ancient neighborhood which Duane never had ventured into before, he
was surprised. "Privacy," the girl said softly. "Mother
and I like privacy." Well, he thought to himself, this certainly
was the place to get it. The buildings, all of them including the
one, which they were now approaching, should have been condemned a
long time ago. As she unlocked and opened the door, he noted that
there seemed to be very little light in the interior. And the dust —

"Ararg!"
he said, startled as he stepped into the foyer and into the mass of
cobwebs. The girl looked back at him, but said nothing. He shrugged,
resigned to the filthy state of the housekeeping, and stepped after
her. He did so for exactly six paces. Then he found he couldn't move.
His legs and arms were so entwined by the gray-spun cobwebs that he
could move neither forward nor backward. It was then the girl again
turned and came toward him. Behind her was something Duane at first
thought was her shadow. It wasn't. It evidenced movement of its own.
Low to the ground it was a thing, which looked like the giant form of
some shell one, might find at the beach. Well, it would have looked
that way were it not for the six, long, thin, red-colored legs, which
moved it forward. "Mother," the girl said by way of
introduction.

Well, you can imagine just how vigorously Duane Winsome fought
against the strands, which held him. Alas, it was all to no avail.
After he relaxed in a state of exhaustion, he looked up to see the
gal's eyes shining bright before him.

"As I said, Mother has had her fill of my men friends for the
time being. Fortunately, you will keep..."

It is in the remembered echoes of
Duane Winsome's shrieking that I consider your invitation to dinner
this evening — the invitation I have tried politely to decline but
which now you have left me little alternative but to accept. I do
accept it, but on one condition. That I am allowed to bring...
someone... with me...

 

 

 

You
know, of course, that the majority of murders are crimes. Not of
premeditation but of passion. But did you ever stop to think why?
Think about it now. Think of yourself committing the conscious act of
snuffing out the life of another human being — planning every step.
Making sure that the execution was such that you would not be found
out. And then performing with your own hands the execution itself. A
decidedly grisly affair. One which not very many of us would be
capable of. So it was with Albert Winston, who could not bring
himself to murder his wife, but then went on to do so anyway... with
maddening results...

Albert and Cora Winston had been married for twenty-three years. It
was a childless marriage, but not because they had planned it that
way. They had in fact neither planned to have children nor planned
not to have them. It was, to Albert Winston, symbolic of their entire
span of years together. Nothing had been planned. Not the tedious
clerical job at which he worked in spite of Cora's substantial
inheritance. Not the huge dark house they lived in and which a goodly
part of that inheritance had financed. Not even the gardens hi which
Cora worked daily but hi such a disorganized way that, while the
various flower plots looked satisfactory in themselves, the overall
effect appeared visually disturbing. It was, in a way, quite...
insane.

That, at least, was how Albert Winston thought of the garden. Insane.
And that is how he came to think of all aspects of his life with
Cora. Oh, he didn't romanticize about having a woman who was more
beautiful than the plain, bland Cora. No, he didn't do that at all.
He recognized that he himself was as plain and bland as she was,
perhaps even more so. Nonetheless, more and more, he felt the need to
be free of her. She and everything about her, all of it was driving
him insane. Yet, he knew he could not just pick up and leave her.
Albert Winston was not imaginative enough even to dream of where he
might go, what he might do. No, he would not leave his home, his
town, and his job. Therefore, there was only one solution and that
was that Cora must die. Very simple then. Albert would murder her.

He planned very carefully, very methodically,
but like Albert, very unimaginatively. He would dig a hole in the
garden, lure Cora out there, and kill her with a meat cleaver. Then
use the meat cleaver to chop up her body into little pieces, which
would be buried in the garden. All of it was so simple. Albert
Winston was certain it would work and that he would not be caught.
There was only one problem. When the night came, when the very hour
of the night came that he was to put his careful plan into action, he
couldn't do it. He was outside in the
garden, the spade dug into its first clump of soft dark soil, when he
knew he couldn't go through with it. At that moment, perhaps,
Albert's mind snapped. He could not murder, but he had to get away
from his wife. He could not, would not move to another place. So to
his mind there came but one solution. He would commit suicide.

Again, Albert was most unimaginative. Right before the kitchen drawer
from which he took the meat cleaver, which had been meant for Cora,
he sliced his left wrist. Because he blacked out before completing
the job, he was not very thorough, and when Cora found him he still
was alive. Plenty of time to get him to the hospital and to replace
in his system the quantity of blood he had lost. He was back home in
almost no time at all, no one even thinking that the mishap was
anything other than an accident.

He
had failed at murder and he had failed at suicide. So Albert Winston
resigned himself to his unbearable status quo. Which would have been
the end of our story had not Cora confided to him one night something
about the blood which had saved his life. It was about nine and they
were in the garden. She had been using the spade, digging a hole much
like the one Albert had planned to use for her grave when his
thoughts were those of the murderous husband. Some kind of bush she
was planting, one which required deep roots. And then she said the
thing which sent Albert stalking silently back into the house.

"The blood," she said. "The blood you received at the
hospital. It was mine, you know. I wanted to do what I could to save
you, and the doctor said I was of the same type."

She had expected, perhaps, a word of thanks from Albert, but instead
he was in a state of shock. And when he came out of the house...

He had the cleaver with him. She screamed bloody murder, Cora Winston
did, but Albert finished her off with slices the power of which
amazed even nun. When the deed was done, it took him no time at all
to cover her with earth. He even set in the two pieces of shrubbery
that Cora had planned for the spot.

Neighbors being what they are, the screams were
reported to the authorities. Within the hour two policemen stood at
Albert's door. He greeted them with a smile. The smile was not only
the external expression on his face — no, he really
felt
good
all over, deep inside. Of course, they wanted to check the house and
the grounds as well. Naturally, Albert said they could do as they
wished, also saying he had no idea where his wife was. She had said
flatly she was leaving him. He was cordial and kind, the model of a
good and cooperative citizen — even when they reached that place in
the garden, the place where Cora lay buried. And then...

The taller of the two policemen stared in
wonder at the earth. "Blood," he said. "Fresh blood!"
It was impossible! So thought Albert, but then he looked at the soil.
There
was
fresh blood there. Yet he'd turned the earth so
carefully. Then as the tall policeman called to the other to get a
shovel, Albert saw it. He saw where the blood was coming from. His
left wrist... it was dripping... dripping the blood which Cora had
given him... dripping down to the place where Cora lay.

An odd story? Albert Winston doesn't think so. Not that he places
much value in what the police said in their report after they found
Cora's body. They conjectured he'd cut himself accidentally on
something on the way out to the garden. Just luck, Albert's bad luck,
which the blood happened to drip where it did. And Albert's
explanation? Perhaps he has one, but he's not telling. He's not
telling anyone anything.

He just sits there in his
white-walled room, staring at nothing at all. There is, on Ms face,
what might be a half smile. If that is what it is, perhaps it's there
because, finally, Albert has escaped.

 

 

 

I
so admire artists, don't you? The ability to look at a blank canvas
and see something there which at that particular moment is but a
mental image, and then, with deft strokes of brush and paint, to
transfer the mental to the visual... Please, look up from that book
you're holding for a moment to hear of another book. A book
containing paintings, one of the pages of which —

But I get ahead of myself. I should begin by telling you that Charles
Dell was a bit of an artist himself. Not a very accomplished one, I
must admit. But like many painters at his level of talent he
liberally stole ideas from past artists. Thus by repainting their
ideas he managed to keep himself just a bit beyond the state of
poverty. For the people who buy paintings — even in
sophisticated New York City where Charles painted and sold — are not
always as knowledgeable about such things as they might be. Part of
the reason, of course, was that Charles did not copy the works of
well-known painters. No, he was much too smart for that. But the
works of the obscure are not all that available for study, and thus
Charles became a familiar haunt of the old and dusty used bookstores,
which are found on Manhattan’s, lower half.

It was a rainy day in September when Charles Dell noticed a store
he'd never seen before, at least to his knowledge. It was, then, with
a spirit of anticipation that he approached the narrow building and
tried the door. For a moment he was under the impression that it was
locked, but he was wrong. The door swung open easily, closing softly
behind him as he entered. The long single room was hardly
illuminated, the table upon table of books looking quite strange in
their rows. It seemed as if there was no one in the place to assist
him, but then that impression too was seen to be incorrect as,
suddenly from somewhere behind Charles, a man with a gaunt face and
wispy beard appeared. The man was smiling as if he recognized
Charles, and indeed he did.

"Ah, Mr. Dell," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "It
is good of you to come." When Charles expressed surprise that
the other man should know his name, the proprietor inclined his head.
"You are an artist," he said. "I have seen much of
your work. Much in the style of Claude Durham, I think." Charles
Dell's heart almost stopped. Claude Durham — yes, his Claude Durham
was a nineteenth-century watercolorist who had specialized in works,
which bordered upon the grotesque. Charles's style for many paintings
was much like that artist's. He had stolen liberally from every piece
of Durham's work that he could find. Unfortunately, it had been more
than two years since Charles had seen anything new at all by the
long-dead artist.