He went to the desk and took a sheet of paper. Meticulously he wrote:
To the Police:
Using a small caliber automatic and under the pretense of friendship I approached and shot Carol Stevens. The motive was jealousy.
Signed:
William Roberts.
He permitted a slight smile. Then, taking a box of matches out of his pocket he struck one and lit a corner of the paper. After the note had burned he dropped the ashes into the wastebasket.
He took another piece of paper and wrote the same message, stood up and looked at it from a distance, taking his eyes away from it at intervals, for a second at a time. Then he picked up the paper, and waving it around, walked to the other end of the room. After a few moments he walked back, humming, and slowly burned it, too.
Again he wrote the message. This time he left the room. A moment later his face appeared in the doorway. It was tense as he walked rapidly to the desk. But when he saw the message, undisturbed, he smiled again. He picked it up, crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room. Leaping after it and retrieving it with a desperate, sweeping motion, he unrolled it with quivering fingers. Hastily he read the words and again the satisfied smile lessened the tension on his face. Then he rolled the paper once more and walked to the inside wall. He stood with his back to the room for a long time, at last throwing the wadded note as far over his shoulder as he could, one hand covering his eyes. Turning around, he looked on the floor. The paper was not there. He began to walk back and forth swiftly, looking on the divan, on the chairs. The message was not to be seen. Finally he stopped in the center of the room, a curiously stupid expression on his face. He felt slightly dizzy and the room seemed to be turning. He walked hesitatingly to a chair, his titubation increasing. Leaning over the chair, he looked at the room from this angle. The paper had apparently vanished. He felt his pulse and was alarmed by its rapid beat. In an attitude of half-fear, half-anger, he went hurriedly over the room again, lifting the pillows from the divan and from the chairs. Then he went to a mirror and looked at himself. The pupils of his eyes were large and startling, set in a pale, grayish face lined with anxiety. Panic-stricken, he ran to his clothescloset and took down another dressing robe. This he hung over the mirror in the living room. Animal-like, he fell to his knees, and crawling around the floor, peered under the fringe of the rug. His shoulder bumped against a chair and he tipped it over angrily. His movements became more and more frenzied. At last each article had been closely inspected, and still there was no message. He ran to the door and locked it securely. Suddenly, he looked at the window. It was open. He drew his hand across his forehead which was covered with perspiration. His knees trembled. He sat down abruptly, the upset furniture swaying around him.
Within this desperate sense of fear he quickly regained his balance. He went to the buffet and drank a small brandy. Unsteadily, but seriously, he dressed. He started to leave the room, hesitated, and as an afterthought went to the window. He leaned out and looked down at the alley-like space between the buildings. Unable to distinguish anything, he closed the window, went out into the hall and rang for the elevator.
Downstairs, he crossed the court, climbed over a low fence and walked down the space under his window. One crumpled white paper drew his attention, but it was an empty cigarette package. Toward the sidewalk he saw another wadded paper. People were passing close by and he picked it up self-consciously, not daring to hope that it was the one he wanted. Walking back to the court he opened it feverishly. His eye caught the first line. It said, “To the Police:—” He read no further, but jammed the note hastily, though carefully, into his pocket and folded his hand around it.