By Fredric Brown
Any novice can get rid of relations. however it takes a qualified to kill a virtually excellent stranger. Fiendishly convoluted and sometimes grotesquely humorous, this can be a story of geometrically multiplying homicides and a foolproof homicide whose repercussions hold spreading to eat sufferer after victim.
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Extra info for His Name Was Death
Better, he told himself, to take one big chance now and get it over with than to spend the rest of his life—or as much of it as mattered—in jail or in hiding. He got out of the car, walked to the house and up onto the porch. Rang the bell. — 40 — A woman came to the door and opened it. A gaunt, severe woman with gray hair and bright, bird-like eyes, wearing an apron over a faded dress. ” she asked. “Is Mr. ” “No. ” “Oh. ” She shook her head, started to close the door. He said quickly, “I'm sorry, but it's desperately important that I find him right away.
And how much did he have to run with? About a hundred dollars in real money, about forty of it in his pocket and sixty in the cashbox at the shop. A couple of hundred more in the bank, but where could he cash a check for that much? Maybe in a few stores where he was known he could cash small checks, get himself a little more money. Damn it, why hadn't there been more in the damn cashbox? Then Joyce would have cashed that check out of the cashbox. But all in all not more than a few hundred dollars, even if he counted the counterfeit.
He found himself thinking about Myrtle. About what a bitch she'd been, about how stupid he'd been not to have realized sooner what a fool she'd been making of him. But in the end she'd been the one who'd been stupid. He'd never have killed her if only she'd left bad enough alone that night, if only she hadn't goaded him to desperation that way. He'd never have found out, then, that he was a man after all and not a mouse. And that murder was a simple thing. At least Myrtle had taught him that. But she'd given him three years of hell first.
His Name Was Death by Fredric Brown