Mystery & Suspense - Daily Short Stories

The Finishing Touch

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Duration:: 16m
Broadcast on:: 12 Jul 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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Don't miss out on this limited time offer, it's your gateway to unlimited audio enjoyment. That's Saulgoodmedia dot com, S O L G O O D M E D I A dot com. Check it out, we hope to see you over there. The Finishing Touch by Charles S. Wolfe 1. A hasty survey assured Ridgely that he was alone on the starlet country road. With a sigh of satisfaction, he plunged swiftly into the brush which skirted the roadside. There he paused, alert, until his straining ears convinced him that his movements had been unobserved. Then he made himself comfortable for his brief vigil. Crouching there, he reviewed my NUTLY his actions so far, and his plans for what was to come. There was yet time, if he had erred, if there was a flaw, to withdraw quietly. It was merely a matter of waiting for another night. To be confronted with the damage wrought by an overlooked trifle, when it was too late, would be agonizing. And his very confidence disquieted him, made him feel that there was something amiss. Yet he could find no weak link in his carefully forged chain. His left hand, dropping to his coat pocket, found the bottle of cyanide a potassium solution securely corked and ready to assume its role. His automatic weighed heavily in the other pocket, well-oiled and loaded. The light mask which now covered the upper half of his face, was really of no importance. Just an extra precaution which discounted the possible, but highly improbable, intrusion of some pedestrian. The cyanide, he felt sure, no one would be able to trace. Several weeks before he had stolen a couple of small lumps, quite enough for his purpose, from a private laboratory of a friend who rode the hobby of chemistry. Few people knew of the existence of the little attic laboratory. Fewer still were aware of his acquaintance with its owner, and the man himself was ignorant of the fact that his supply had been levied on. Since the deadly stuff had been dissolved and bottled, and the bottle scrupulously cleaned, he had taken pains to avoid touching it barehanded. Right now his left hand was gloved with rubber. There would be no fingerprints to dam him. Footprints need give him no concern. The roadway was dry and reasonably hard. The discoverers of the corpse would quickly obliterate any slight clues of a definite nature which he might thus leave. Keenest of sleuths could examine the scene of his crime to their heart's content. They would learn nothing. He had made no attempt to establish an alibi. In this he was satisfied he had acted wisely. The business of trying to demonstrate that you were, where you were not, is usually a dangerous undertaking. It involves either the employment of Confederates, or the use of complicated subterfuges, which must either function with precision, or turn into veritable boomerangs. The collapsing alibi is too often the royal road to the electric chair. Ridgley knew that there was just one person who could be relied upon to be forever silent on this night's work, himself. Better to take the chance of the authorities being unable to prove that he was on the spot at the time than to assume the burden of proving that he was not. And anyway, most of the precautions he had taken were no doubt unnecessary. They represented merely his forethought in forestalling unlocked for disaster before it occurred. The chances were that the case would be looked on as just what it seemed on the surface, suicide. There would probably be little more than a perfunctory inquiry, an inquest at which each fact produced would seem to demonstrate conclusively that the man took his own life. Ridgley prided himself that the idea of killing a man by forcing him to kill himself was a master stroke. A man found dead on the road, dead from the effects of poison, and with the bottle containing that poison clutched tightly in his stiffened hand, was obviously a suicide. There is no reason to suspect foul play unless someone is known to have a strong motive for putting the unfortunate one out of the way. And, to the best of Ridgley's knowledge and belief, Morrie hadn't an enemy in the world save himself, and thanks to his consistent and flawless dissimulation, his secret was his own. Outwardly, he had been quite friendly with Morrie. Not too friendly, just enough to be counted really indifferent. In the rare event of murder being suspected and the murderer sought for, there would be no reason for alarm. One other only might possibly connect him with the night's events. Morrie's wife, Jean Morrie and Ridgley shared a rather guilty secret. She could assign to him a motive. But here again he was confident that perfect technique had practically nullified the danger of arouse suspicion. By guarding every word, by well planned and controlled actions, he had assured her that he, like herself, was a harmless flirt. Not once had she been permitted to glimpse the terrible passion that was his. Never had she been allowed to plumb the depths of his crafty and daring nature. He was safe on that score. Under the pretense of carefully guarding her reputation, he had concealed their affair from outsiders, and to her herself he had made the matter trivial. There was one circumstance, however, that might cause comment. And as he thought of it, Ridgley grinned. While it was true that no one, apparently, had a motive for slaying Morrie, it was equally true that the man had no apparent motive for killing himself. Happy, carefree, comfortably wealthy, and well satisfied with life, people might wonder that he should court death. Ridgley grinned, for it was to this, to his mind, the weakest point of his whole coup, that he had devoted the most thought, expending the greatest effort. He had supplied the motive. Here was the artistic triumph of the whole thing. Here was the finishing touch. For the suspicions of the authorities would be elayed before they were aroused. During the three months that he had known the Morrie's, he had quietly, unobtrusively, collected specimens of John Morrie's handwriting. And by diligent practice, he had enabled himself to imitate the man's scroll so perfectly that he had no fear of the fraud being detected. Not only the writing itself had he studied minutely, but the style, the tricks of speech. Beyond doubt, the missu he had evolved, with so much care, would pass unquestioned as the dead man's own work. He drew forth an envelope, and by the light of his electric torch, scrutinized with pride and satisfaction, the letter he had written. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. John Morrie. "Dear Jean, I am sorry, terribly sorry, for the notoriety this thing will cause. I realize that you will be shocked. I am asking your forgiveness. For four years I have suffered in silence, Jean, for our marriage was a bitter mistake. I did not love you. I realized it when it was too late. I have done my best to conceal the fact from you, but I know I could not go on living a lie much longer. I am taking the easiest way out. It is only just that I should suffer for my own sin. John." As he replaced the letter in its envelope, rigidly chuckled. He would place this missu in the man's pocket after he had fallen, and there was the motive, all ready to satisfy the most critical. Scandal-loving eyes scanning Morrie's past for sensational disclosures of his implied double life would not dwell too closely on the method of his taking off. Furnish, he stiffened. The soft thud of moving feet on the hard road reached his ears, growing steadily louder. He knew it was Morrie. The moment had come. Two. Ridgley's hand closed resolutely over his automatic. Morrie, he knew, was unarmed. He slipped soundlessly to the edge of the cops and waited until the approaching form was only a few feet from his ambush. Then he sprang out, weapon leveled, barring the way. There was a startled oath, as Morrie caught sight of the ominous figure before him. Ridgley's gruff command to throw up his hands was instantly obeyed. The surprise was complete. "Don't speak!" Ridgley rather hoped that his disguised voice would completely mask his identity, but it didn't matter, really. "Do as you were told. You are going to sleep for an hour or so until I clean you and make my getaway." "Really?" Morrie was regaining his nerve. "I haven't enough about me to make it worth your while." "Shut up!" Ridgley's command was curt as he advanced toward his victim. The deadly bottle in his gloved left hand. He extended it toward Morrie. "Drink it," he growled determinedly. Morrie lowered one arm and took the bottle hesitantly. "What is it?" he asked, falteringly. "Claro, hydrate, if you must know," responded Ridgley in tones of well-fanned sulkyness. "Enough to put you out for a couple of hours. Knock out drops. Take your choice. Drink it and go out for a couple of hours." "Or?" He waved the automatic suggestively. "Go out for keeps." "Look here," began Morrie. "I'll promise. Drink it!" Ridgley snapped savagely. Without further parlay, Morrie raised the bottle to his lips. It was only an instant, really, but to Ridgley waiting anxiously. It seemed hours before the body crumbled to the roadway. Then, swiftly, he went to his victim, pocketing his automatic. His gloved hand inserted the letter into Morrie's pocket. He noted that the bottle was tightly gripped in the dead man's hand, and noiselessly he stole away from the place. A shortcut through the little woodland brought him out onto the main road. Without haste, he went in his way toward the summer hotel. He was jubilant. Morrie was out of his way. He had only to wait the proper moment to increase the order of his courting. He felt that the widow would lend an attentive ear. He passed no one on the road. Everything was coming his way. As he gained his room unobserved, he was whistling softly. Not a pang of remorse to sear his conscience. Ridgley wasn't that kind. He turned in and slept like a top. He was awakened by a sharp knocking on the room door. Bright sunlight was streaming in through the thickly curtained windows. A hasty glance at the clock told him that it was after ten. The knocking continued insistently. He sprang out of bed and reached for his bathrobe. Just a minute, he called, as he hurriedly pulled a comb through his tozzled hair. An instant later, fairly presentable, he was gazing inquiringly at the tall young man who had pushed in through the partially opened door. Even before the other had introduced himself, Ridgley knew that his collar was a detective. "Something must have gone wrong," he thought, and his mind went racing swiftly over the details of the evening before, seeking to find and forestall the consequences of a slip. He was not panicky. His visitor was speaking. John Maury was found dead on the road late last night, Mr. Ridgley. Ridgley carefully sidestepped a possible trap. An accident, he asked, in perfectly toned surprise and concern. "No," replied the other, he was murdered. Ridgley concealed his dismay. How in the devil had they reached that conclusion so soon in the face of his carefully prepared evidence to the contrary? "Murder'd," he echoed blankly. "How? By whom?" The tall young man sat down, watching Ridgley narrowly. His right hand had dropped carelessly into his pocket. He leaned forward slightly, and spoke swiftly. "By you, Mr. Ridgley," he replied evenly. "Now, don't interrupt. You set a very pretty stage, my friend, and you have been careful, careful to a fault. It was your little finishing touch that betrayed you, that, and a woman's vanity. Mrs. Maury is a very beautiful woman with a very plain name. It has been her little failing to hide that fact. Her name is not Jean Ridgley. It's Jane. And Maury never called her anything else in private. When she saw that letter you so carefully left, she knew Maury had never written it, despite the excellent forgery. For he hated the name Jean, as much as she disliked Jane. "She is a big enough woman to admit her own shortcomings. And, shall I read the warrant?" The end of "The Finishing Touch." "Ready for an audio experience like no other. Dive into the world of infinite sounds with crystal clear high fidelity. Only on Saul Good Media. Visit SaulGoodMedia.com today, and start exploring the boundless universe of sounds that will soothe, inspire, and revitalize your senses. Start listening today and experience uninterrupted serenity at SaulGoodMedia.com. [BLANK_AUDIO]