The Finishing Touch

0:00The Finishing Touch by Charles S. Wolff One A hasty survey assured originally that he was alone on the Starlit Country Road. With a sigh of satisfaction he plunged swiftly into the brush which skirted the roadside. There he paused, alert, until his straining heirs convinced him that his movements had been unobserved. Then he made himself comfortable for his brief vigil. Crouching there he reviewed minutely his action 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.

1:04Yet 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

2:04of the fact that his supply had been levied on. Since the deadly stuff had been dissolved and bottled, and the bottles groupulously cleaned, he had taken pains to avoid touching it bare-handed. 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. Keynest 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.

3:06It 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. Originally new 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 forstalling 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

4:09would seem to demonstrate conclusively that the man took his own life. Ridgeley prided himself that the idea of killing a man by forcing him to kill himself was a master's troke. 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 follow play unless someone is known to have a strong motive for putting the unfortunate one out of the way. And to the best of Ridgeley's knowledge and belief, Mori hadn't an enemy in the world save himself, and thanks to his consistent and flawless dissimilation, his secret was his own. Outwardly, he had been quite friendly with Mori. Not too friendly, just enough to be counted really indifferent. In the rare event of murder being suspected and the murderous sought for, there would be

5:11no reason for alarm. One other only might possibly connect him with the night's events. Mori's wife, Jean Mori and Ridgeley 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 a roused suspicion. By guarding every word, by a 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.

6:15And as he thought of it, Ridgeley grinned. While it was true that no one, apparently, had a motive for slaying Mori, 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. Ridgeley 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 a laid before they were aroused. During the three months that he had known the Moris he had quietly, unobtrusively, collected specimens of John Moris' handwriting. And by diligent practice he had enabled himself to imitate the man's scroll so perfectly

7:20that 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 out the misoo 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 Mori. 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

8:22a 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, originally chuckled. He would place this misoo in the man's pocket after he had fallen, and there was the motive, all ready to satisfy the most critical. And all loving eyes scanning Mori'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 Mori. The moment had come. Two, Ridgeley's hand closed resolutely over his automatic. Mori, he knew, was unarmed. He slipped soundlessly to the edge of the cops and waited until the approaching form was

9:27only a few feet from his ambush. Then he sprang out, weapon-leveled, barring the way. There was a startled oath as Mori caught sight of the ominous figure before him. Mori's rough command to throw up his hands was instantly obeyed. The surprise was complete. Don't speak. Ridgeley 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? Mori was regaining his nerve. I haven't enough about me to make it worth your while. Shut up! Ridgeley's command was curt as he advanced toward his victim, the deadly bottle in his glove left hand. He extended it toward Mori. Granke, he growled determinedly.

10:28Mori lowered one arm and took the bottle hesitantly. What is it, he asked, falteringly? Well hydrate if you must know, responded richly in tones of well-fain sulkiness. 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 suggestedly. Go out for keeps. Look here, began Mori. I'll promise. Drink it! Ridgeley snapped savagely. Out for their parlay, Mori raised the bottle to his lips. It was only an instant really, but to Ridgeley waiting anxiously, it seemed hours before the body crumbled to the roadway. Then swiftly he went to his victim, pocketing his automatic. His glove hand inserted the letter into Mori's pocket. He noted that the bottle was tightly gripped in the dead man's hand.

11:28And noiselessly he stole away from the place. A shortcut through the little woodland brought him out onto the main road. Without haste he went at his way toward the summer hotel. He was jubilant. Mori 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 land 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. Ridgeley wasn't that kind. He turned in and slept like a top. He was awakened by a sharp knocking on the room door. His sunlight was streaming in through the thickly-curtained windows. A hasty glance at the clock told him that it was after ten.

12:30The 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 tossled hair. An instant later, fairly presentable, he was gazing inquiringly at the tall young man who had pushed in through the partially open door. Even before the other had introduced himself, Ridgeley 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. On more he was found dead on the road late last night, Mr. Ridgeley. Ridgeley carefully sidesteped a possible trap. An accident, he asked, in perfectly toned surprise and concern. No, replied the other.

13:31He was murdered. Ridgeley 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? He echoed blankly, how, by whom? The tall young man sat down, watching Ridgeley narrowly. His right hand had dropped carelessly into his pocket. He leaned forward slightly and spoke swiftly. By you, Mr. Ridgeley, he replied evenly. No, 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. Morrie is a very beautiful woman, with a very plain name. It has been her little failing to hide that fact. Her name is not Gene Ridgeley.

14:32It's Jane. And Morrie never called her anything else in private. When she saw that letter you so carefully left, she knew Morrie had never written it, despite the excellent forgery, for he hated the name Gene 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.