Murder Isn’t Timid

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The cream of wheat was even more tasteless than usual; or maybe it was because he had spent three sleepless, terror-ridden nights, shivering in bed while he heard the ghostly noises downstairs.

Across the breakfast table from him, Maggie, his wife, a corpulent woman with a mannish face and a voice like a cracking whip, rustled the morning paper. “All through, Sylvester?”

He raised red-rimmed, tired eyes. “Yes, dear.” He wished she wouldn’t come to the breakfast table with her hair kinked up on stringy rags.

She said, “Well, you’d better be getting ready. Mr. Allenby will be by in a moment.”

He got up from the table. His head felt thick, his mouth fuzzy. He hoped there would be no noises tonight and he could get some sleep. He got his hat and coat from his bedroom, came back downstairs, and told Maggie “Bye, dear.” She submitted to his kiss on her cheek without-looking up from the paper.

She said, “Here’s something else about Todd Bassett, Sylvester. It’s been in the paper before, but they’re stressing the point now.”

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