insulin.â
âGiving herself?â
I said with this syringe it was as easy as falling off a log. I showed her the little spring thing. I said anyone, however inexperienced, could give an injection with this gadget. I showed Edna how it worked without working it, because there are five cc. of insulin in that baby.
I said, holding it to the light, that insulin was funny stuff. It was diabeticsâ meat and other peopleâs poison. âThereâs enough right here,â I said, âto kill a nondiabetic ox.â
Edna would stare at the hypodermic. Her eyes would dilate. She would take deep, deep breaths, as if the air in Claireâs room had become thin.
I said, âOf course thereâs one catch to it. It isnât so easy to give an injection to anyone who doesnât want it, but if someone is drunk and helplessâAll you need is this syringe, a couple of seconds of helplessness, twenty minutes, and nobody will call it murder. Twenty minutes,â I said, âand pouff.â
Edna screamed when I said âpouff.â She gave this funny bitten-off scream and ran, ran, out of the room.
âRun, run, run!â Marjorie whispered.
She didnât run far enough. She came back.
Edna didnât come in here to me until very late today. I said the bedroom must have been a mess to have kept her at it so long. She must have had some job cleaning up after Mr. Charles this morning because even when he hasnât been on a binge he leaves everything aroundâbut last night! âI hope you always go through his pockets before you let the tailor take his suits.â
She said she always did.
She looked at me very queerly, I thought.
What had Edna found going through Charlesâ suits? Something of mine? Did she know about me and Charles?
Did Edna know that I brought up the subject of Charlesâ drunkenness to convey that had I wished to, I could have stuck twenty hypodermic syringes into Charles last night?
Edna wouldnât follow my lead. She wanted to talk about Charles. She said Mr. Carter certainly must have been drunk last night from the look of the room; but he got drunk for a reason, Mr. Carter. He wasnât her Andrew, Mr. Carter. Maybe Mr. Carter was in trouble?
I have been neglecting dear Charles because of my preoccupation with Edna. I decided to find out whether he was up to something.
Charles, head in hands. Charles uttering deep, heartfelt groans. Forgive me. Forgive me.
I forgave him his naughtiness. There was nothing else I could do at the moment, and right now nothing seems to matter but Edna. I said, never mind, what was done was done. I said perhaps things would be looking up soon and he could quit his job. Perhaps I could make some money at home. Charles raised his head too quickly and found me staring at this notebook. It wasnât too difficult to get him off the track, though. Iâm sure he has forgotten this notebook already.
I havenât forgotten it, but this business of Charles got in the way. So far my heroine hasnât returned to her moutons , but thatâs to be expected. It takes a certain amount of time to adjust to the horror of murder when presented with the practical method for it. It takes a certain period to digest the almost indigestible, to let the acids of desire and ambition work on it and break it down so that it can be assimilated into the blood stream. I am sure Edna will adjust to it.
Edna has not forgotten the drawer in which I keep the syringe. As I watched her rub the desk with furniture polish, I noticed that she skipped the third, the fatal, drawer.
She wouldnât even touch it with the wax and polishing cloth. The end of the dusting mop would be the closest Edna could come to it. Marjorie felt her own face stiffen as Ednaâs face would have stiffened.
All I can do now is watch and wait, but watchful waiting is quite distinct from boredom.
Hunters arenât bored waiting for their prey to
âGiving herself?â
I said with this syringe it was as easy as falling off a log. I showed her the little spring thing. I said anyone, however inexperienced, could give an injection with this gadget. I showed Edna how it worked without working it, because there are five cc. of insulin in that baby.
I said, holding it to the light, that insulin was funny stuff. It was diabeticsâ meat and other peopleâs poison. âThereâs enough right here,â I said, âto kill a nondiabetic ox.â
Edna would stare at the hypodermic. Her eyes would dilate. She would take deep, deep breaths, as if the air in Claireâs room had become thin.
I said, âOf course thereâs one catch to it. It isnât so easy to give an injection to anyone who doesnât want it, but if someone is drunk and helplessâAll you need is this syringe, a couple of seconds of helplessness, twenty minutes, and nobody will call it murder. Twenty minutes,â I said, âand pouff.â
Edna screamed when I said âpouff.â She gave this funny bitten-off scream and ran, ran, out of the room.
âRun, run, run!â Marjorie whispered.
She didnât run far enough. She came back.
Edna didnât come in here to me until very late today. I said the bedroom must have been a mess to have kept her at it so long. She must have had some job cleaning up after Mr. Charles this morning because even when he hasnât been on a binge he leaves everything aroundâbut last night! âI hope you always go through his pockets before you let the tailor take his suits.â
She said she always did.
She looked at me very queerly, I thought.
What had Edna found going through Charlesâ suits? Something of mine? Did she know about me and Charles?
Did Edna know that I brought up the subject of Charlesâ drunkenness to convey that had I wished to, I could have stuck twenty hypodermic syringes into Charles last night?
Edna wouldnât follow my lead. She wanted to talk about Charles. She said Mr. Carter certainly must have been drunk last night from the look of the room; but he got drunk for a reason, Mr. Carter. He wasnât her Andrew, Mr. Carter. Maybe Mr. Carter was in trouble?
I have been neglecting dear Charles because of my preoccupation with Edna. I decided to find out whether he was up to something.
Charles, head in hands. Charles uttering deep, heartfelt groans. Forgive me. Forgive me.
I forgave him his naughtiness. There was nothing else I could do at the moment, and right now nothing seems to matter but Edna. I said, never mind, what was done was done. I said perhaps things would be looking up soon and he could quit his job. Perhaps I could make some money at home. Charles raised his head too quickly and found me staring at this notebook. It wasnât too difficult to get him off the track, though. Iâm sure he has forgotten this notebook already.
I havenât forgotten it, but this business of Charles got in the way. So far my heroine hasnât returned to her moutons , but thatâs to be expected. It takes a certain amount of time to adjust to the horror of murder when presented with the practical method for it. It takes a certain period to digest the almost indigestible, to let the acids of desire and ambition work on it and break it down so that it can be assimilated into the blood stream. I am sure Edna will adjust to it.
Edna has not forgotten the drawer in which I keep the syringe. As I watched her rub the desk with furniture polish, I noticed that she skipped the third, the fatal, drawer.
She wouldnât even touch it with the wax and polishing cloth. The end of the dusting mop would be the closest Edna could come to it. Marjorie felt her own face stiffen as Ednaâs face would have stiffened.
All I can do now is watch and wait, but watchful waiting is quite distinct from boredom.
Hunters arenât bored waiting for their prey to
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