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To Kill A Man
by
“Something’s the matter with God,” he remarked irrelevantly, “to be letting you around loose. It’s clean beyond me what he’s up to, playing such-like tricks on poor humanity. Now if I was God–“
His further opinion was interrupted by the entrance of the butler.
“Something is wrong with the telephone, madam,” he announced. “The wires are crossed or something, because I can’t get Central.”
“Go and call one of the servants,” she ordered. “Send him out for an officer, and then return here.”
Again the pair was left alone.
“Will you kindly answer one question, ma’am?” the man said. “That servant fellow said something about a bell. I watched you like a cat, and you sure rung no bell.”
“It was under the table, you poor fool. I pressed it with my foot.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I reckoned I’d seen your kind before, and now I sure know I have. I spoke to you true and trusting, and all the time you was lying like hell to me.”
She laughed mockingly.
“Go on. Say what you wish. It is very interesting.”
“You made eyes at me, looking soft and kind, playing up all the time the fact that you wore skirts instead of pants–and all the time with your foot on the bell under the table. Well, there’s some consolation. I’d sooner be poor Hughie Luke, doing his ten years, than be in your skin. Ma’am, hell is full of women like you.”
There was silence for a space, in which the man, never taking his eyes from her, studying her, was making up his mind.
“Go on,” she urged. “Say something.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll say something. I’ll sure say something. Do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to get right up from this chair and walk out that door. I’d take the gun from you, only you might turn foolish and let it go off. You can have the gun. It’s a good one. As I was saying, I am going right out that door. And you ain’t going to pull that gun off either. It takes guts to shoot a man, and you sure ain’t got them. Now get ready and see if you can pull that trigger. I ain’t going to harm you. I’m going out that door, and I’m starting.”
Keeping his eyes fixed on her, he pushed back the chair and slowly stood erect. The hammer rose halfway. She watched it. So did he.
“Pull harder,” he advised. “It ain’t half up yet. Go on and pull it and kill a man. That’s what I said, kill a man, spatter his brains out on the floor, or slap a hole into him the size of your fist. That’s what killing a man means.”
The hammer lowered jerkily but gently. The man turned his back and walked slowly to the door. She swung the revolver around so that it bore on his back. Twice again the hammer came up halfway and was reluctantly eased down.
At the door the man turned for a moment before passing on. A sneer was on his lips. He spoke to her in a low voice, almost drawling, but in it was the quintessence of all loathing, as he called her a name unspeakable and vile.