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"Man Proposes–"; The Story Of A Man Who Wanted To Die
by
“Right! Wrong!” bellowed the physician. “Damn it, man! You’re asking me to help you steal a million dollars. Does that occur to you?”
“The end justifies the means in this case. You’re not rich. That twenty-five thousand–“
Herkimer flung the paper at the speaker.
“Well, if you won’t take my money, you’ll have to help me, out of friendship. At nine o’clock to-morrow morning I shall be dead. Knowing the truth and all it means, you’ll have to come. You– can’t–stay–away.”
“Oh, is that so?” the doctor mocked, furiously. “I’ll show you whether I can or not.” He jerked his watch from his pocket and consulted it. “There’s a train for Boston in twenty minutes and I’m going to take it. I couldn’t get back here in time even if I wanted to. Now, kill yourself and be damned to you.” He seized his hat and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
A moment later Murray heard a taxi-cab whir noisily away from the club-house door.
Manifestly, there were more difficulties in the way of this enterprise than he had counted upon. Without the co-operation of some reliable physician the clubman dared not do away with himself in New York; coroners are curious, medical attention is too prompt, he was too well known, the very existence of that tremendous amount of life insurance would lead to investigation. He decided to go hunting, and he knew just the right place to go, too, he thought.
Several years before he had joined a gunning club which owned a vast expanse of rice-fields and marsh lands in North Carolina, and, knowing the place thoroughly, he concluded that it offered perfect facilities for such an action as he contemplated. Accordingly, he packed his guns, wired for a guide, and boarded a train for the South that very night. In his pocket he carried a vial containing twenty-five grains of powdered cocaine.
The club launch met him at Boonville, the nearest station, and during the twenty-mile trip down the Sound he learned all he wished to know. The shooting was well-nigh over; there were no other members at the club-house; he would have the place all to himself.
For several days he hunted diligently, taking pains to write numerous letters to his friends, and among others to Muriel. It was his first letter since their parting, and the strain of holding his pen within formal bounds was almost too much for him. It was a pity she would never understand his motives in doing this thing, he reflected. It was a pity he had never understood his own feelings before it was too late. Manlike, he had thrown away the only precious thing of his life while searching for counterfeit joys, and, man-like, he regretted his folly now that he had lost her.
That evening he informed his guide that he intended to hunt by himself on the following morning, and in answer to the old negro’s warning assured him that he knew the channels well and was amply able to handle a canoe.
He rose early, forced himself to eat a substantial breakfast, for the sake of appearances, then set out in his Peterboro. The morning was chilly and he had purposely donned a heavy sweater, shell vest, leather coat, and hip-boots. He paddled down the river for a mile or more, then let his craft drift with the current. Far away on one horizon was a dark, low-lying fringe of pines marking the mainland; two miles to seaward sounded the slow rumble of the restless Atlantic; on every hand were acres upon acres, miles upon miles of waving marsh-grass interlaced with creeks and channels; nowhere was there a sign of human life.
He took the little bottle from his pocket, reached over the side and filled it with water. He replaced the cork and shook the vial until the white powder it contained was thoroughly dissolved. There were twenty-five grains of it, eight fatal doses, and he had seen that it was fresh. This time there could be no question of failure, he reasoned. Nor was there much chance of discovery, for after that drug had remained in his body for a few hours it would be exceedingly difficult of identification, even at the hands of an expert toxicologist. But there were no experts in this country, no doctors at all, in fact, this side of Boonville, twenty miles away.