It had seemed so simple: kill Peggy and all the clouds roll away. Just Helen and me, and no love-nest in Manhattan and no pretty little bosomy empty-headed bed-partner, and no worries about getting her pregnant. Simple. But it wasn’t working out that way.

It was as if Peggy were still alive, only twice as bad, because now I had all the pressure and tension and none of the other things. I kept dreaming about that body floating to the top of the lake. I could see the big headlines in the paper:

NUDE BODY FOUND IN ADIRONDACK LAKE

And then the story, how the naked lovely had been murdered and dumped in the lake, and how medical examiners had found she was three months pregnant. And I could fill in all the rest of the steps. I had made my cabin reservation under another name, of course, and taken great care to throw red herrings along the path. But the police would start tracking down everyone who had rented that cabin during the summer and trying to link him with Peggy Armour. And there was some guy named Harrison who could tip them off to me, I thought.

I could see the next headline too:

HEIRESS’ HUSBAND INDICTED FOR MURDER

But then I tried to figure it the other way—that even if they found the body, which wasn’t likely, they’d have trouble identifying it after the lake got through with her. And even if they identified it, they’d still have a tough time linking me with the crime. Yes, I thought. It wasn’t as bad as I was figuring. I’d squeeze through. I might live the rest of my life under the shadow of fear, turning away every time I saw a policeman coming up the street, but I’d get through.

I thought.

Until Harrison phoned again.

This time it was at home, and it happened to be the maid’s night off. Helen and I were sitting in the parlor; she was reading some best-seller and sipping a drink, and I was staring at the daily newspaper without seeing too much of it. We hadn’t been talking much to each other. Helen and I didn’t talk too much, except when we were quarreling, which was only about half the time.

The phone rang. That was funny, we don’t get too many calls, except from Berril, and he had left a couple of hours before. We both looked up.

“I’ll get it,” I said hastily, before Helen had even made up her mind about it. It was as if I knew who it was going to be.

I was right.

I snatched up the phone on the third ring and nearly shouted “Hello!” into it.

The calm, familiar voice said, “Mr. Foster, this is Duke Harrison. How have you been?”

“Harrison?” I bluffed. “I’m afraid I don’t—”