Dully he tried to remember what you did when you committed a murder. There was the alibi—what would that be? And disposal of the body—the furnace, or he could steal some carboys of acid from the chem lab. What acid? And would it be wise to steal it? And then there was motive. That would be his strong point. The courts would not recognize his true motive.
He started. Tansy was shaking him insistently.
"Hurry, Norman. She's very close."
As if in some sticky nightmare of fear and rage and hate, he made his preparations. The curtains drawn. The door barely unlatched, so she could push her way in. Himself in the dark corner of the living room. She would make a good target, outlined against that oblong of daylight.
Suddenly Tansy slipped into his arms. Her body molded itself to his. Her moist lips found his own. Almost brutally he returned the kiss. He heard her whisper breathlessly, "Only be quick, darling. Don't let her look at you." And then she had retreated to the bedroom doorway.
There were steps hurrying up the walk. His emotions contracted to one tight knot. He was conscious of the cold metal in his hand.
The door was pushed inward. A thin form in gray silk was silhouetted there. Indistinctly he could make out beyond the sight of the gun, the faded face, the thick glasses. His finger tightened on the trigger.
But the thick glasses were turned in his direction. And the silver-haired head gave a little shake.
A dull, almost stupid look came over his face. His jaw sagged.
"Quick, Norman. Quick!"