Read Online Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton - Free Book Online

range of medical experience before settling down to a profitable society practice.
    I asked, “Why did Jean die, Dr. Perry?”
    He blinked. Obviously, he thought it was a strange question for me to ask. After all, I was the guy who’d killed her, wasn’t I?
    â€œWhy, I don’t know,” he said. “I wasn’t there, how could I say? I rather assumed—” He stopped, embarrassed.
    â€œThat my hand slipped? It seems to be a common assumption in these parts,” I said. “And a convenient one, for some people.”
    â€œIf you’re implying there was something wrong with Jean—”
    I said, “Obviously, there was something wrong. With Jean, or you, or me, or somebody else. She’s dead. Maybe you should have examined my hands before clearing me for the job, Doctor. You might have prevented the slip, if there was a slip.”
    His voice was stiff. “Maybe I should have.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, “you should examine them now.”
    He didn’t get it at once. He said impatiently, “Really, I’d better see to my patient—”
    â€œLook at them,” I said gently. “The right one is of special interest, Doctor.” There was a little silence, as he saw what I was driving at. I said, “Note the weapon. It uses the .38 Special cartridge firing a one-hundred-and-fifty-grain bullet with a muzzle velocity of eleven hundred and fifty feet per second and a muzzle energy of three hundred and sixty-five foot pounds. Now note what happens when I exert pressure on the trigger—”
    â€œEric.” His voice was professionally calm and soothing. “Eric, put the gun away. There’s no need for hostility. I am certainly not trying to duck my share of the responsibility for your unfortunate mishap. Careful !”
    â€œDon’t panic, Doc,” I said. “It’s a double-action revolver. Not much happens immediately as the trigger moves back, except that the cylinder rotates, bringing a new cartridge into line and the hammer rises, so. This being a pocket pistol, the hammer has no conventional spur, just a little grooved cocking piece that won’t hang up in the clothing. Now I catch it with my thumb before the hammer can drop, so.”
    He couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath as the hammer fell a fraction of an inch before being arrested by my thumb.
    â€œEric—”
    I said, “Let us review the situation, Doctor. There is now a loaded cartridge lined up with the firing pin and, of course, with the gun barrel. The trigger is back as far as it will go, rendering all safety devices inoperative. The hammer is fully cocked, held only by my thumb. The muzzle is aimed at your abdomen. The range is about three feet. I ask for your prognosis, Doctor. What will happen when your driver, sneaking up behind me, clouts me alongside the head with a blackjack or gives me a karate chop to the neck—and the hammer slips out from under my nerveless thumb? I think the matter deserves our most careful consideration, don’t you?”
    There was a space of complete silence. The big man behind me, belatedly aware of the situation, had stopped moving. Dr. Perry licked his lips, watching the gun with fascination.
    I said, “There is a time element involved, of course. It’s quite a strain, holding a gun like this. When my thumb gets tired, and maybe a little slippery with sweat—Don’t forget, I’m the guy whose hand keeps slipping and killing people.”
    â€œEric,” he said. “Eric, don’t be hasty. I can understand the resentment you feel towards me, but I swear the instructions I gave you seemed perfectly safe, well within the bounds of what the subject could tolerate—”
    I laughed. “Doctor, you flatter yourself. I’m not mad at you, although I do think you might at least wait for the autopsy results before talking as if it were all my fault. After