The perfect murder

by Roy L. Mangum

For 22 years Mark Melcher had walked from his drugstore to his house at exactly 5 o’clock. Methodical Mark was. For 22 years he had been greeted respectfully along the way by men and women who had grown old with him. Dignified Mark was. For 22 years he had stopped to pat the heads of children and give them penny candies. Kindly Mark was. “Wouldn’t hurt a fly,” as Bob Barstow, the sheriff, often said.

Mark was Willowville’s best-loved citizen, all right. People came to him with their troubles. Behind his old, dusty prescription counter he listened to the secrets of human beings who trusted him. He had a way about him, Mark had, so that you listened to his advice, and carried it out, and found yourself better for it.

Emily Holden was a mighty pretty girl of about 22. The schoolteacher and a good one. Even the pupils liked her. She had come to Willowville early in September and by Christmas she was dead in love with Andrew Fellows.

Old Man Fellows – he wasn’t so very old, though, come to think of it – was the richest man in town and a head of school board. So, naturally, he saw a lot at Emily Holden. She went up to his house now and then to talk over school matters and it was a plain to see, after a spell, that she was gone over him. Not just in love, you understand, but crazy about him – like some women get over a man.

Well, Emily came into Mark Melcher’s drugstore one day and got behind the prescription counter and began to talk on something awful. Mark listened to her story, and while she was telling it his eyes got to looking mighty ugly.

“And you say Andrew Fellows is the man?” he demanded when she got through.

“Oh, I have been such a fool!”Emily sobbed. “But I loved him so, and he promised to marry me. And now he threatens to tell something he says he knows about me, Mr. Melcher. Something he says is terrible. Oh what shell I do Mr. Melcher? ”

Mark put his arms around Emily Holden held her close and cried. It was awful. Pretty soon he pulled himself together and went to the bank and cashed a fat check. Then he came back and gave Emily the money.

“You go,” he said, “to this address” – he gave her the name of somebody in New York – “and tell the lady there all about it. Tell her Mark Melcher sent you. And don’t you ever come back to Willowville, Emily.”

Emily insisted she wouldn’t take the money, of course. But Mark just took her in his arms and kissed her mighty tenderly and made her do it. Then, when she gone, he got behind his prescription counter again and waited.

He had made up his mind to kill Old Man Fellows, to confess, and to let them hang him if they wanted to.

Pretty soon Old Man Fellows came in to ask for some the eyewash he usually bought.

“Got a new kind, Andrew,” Mark said slowly. “Smells nice, too.”

He went behind the counter and got a half ounce of prussic acid. The pure stuff, undiluted. Then he let Old Man Fellows take a little whiff of it.

“Smells sort of like peach blossoms,” said Old Man Fellows. “Kind of nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s nice,” said Mark, “and just as good for the eyes as it smells. I’ve this much, but I’ll let you have it, same price as the others. ”

Old Man Fellows smiled. Mark did, too, for he knew that a single drop of pure prussic acid inside the eye would kill Old Man Fellows almost as quick as lightning.

Old Man Fellows paid over his money and started to leave. It was 5 o’clock, so Mark went along with him. At his house Mark turned in and bade his friend good-bye.

Early next morning the news spread like wildfire. Mrs. Thompson, Old Man Fellows’ housekeeper had found him deader than a doornail when she went upstairs to see what had kept him so long before breakfast. Near her master she found a little bottle, and gripped in Old Man Fellows; hand, so tightly that he had crushed it, an eyedropper.

At 5 o’clock that afternoon Mark Melcher closed his store, locked it, and walked over to the sheriff’s office. He was going to confess, and clear his conscience, and make his peace with God, even if they hanged him for it. He didn’t care now what happened.

“Bob,” he said to the sheriff, “I’ve come to give myself up. I killed Andrew Fellows.”

The sheriff started to laugh, but one look at Mark’s eyes stopped him. Wild-looking and sort of glassy they were – like crazy people’s eyes. The sheriff told Mark to sit down and went outside for a minute to whisper something to his deputy.

“Mark Melcher’s going crazy,” he said. “He thinks he’s killed Old Man Fellows. Can you beat it? Why, Mark wouldn’t hurt a fly. Too bed! They were friends for years, those two. Guess it must have hit Mark pretty hard”

That news spread like wildfire, too. Mark Melcher had gone kind of crazy over Old Man Fellows’ death! Wasn’t it a shame? And Mark such a fine man. So sympathetic. Too sympathetic, he was, worrying himself crazy over his friend’s death because he had sold him some poison. As if could have known that Old Man Fellows was going to commit suicide, like the coroner said!

He got to wandering around Willowville, telling everybody he had killed Old Men Fellows. Folk would listen, shake their heads, and say, “That’s too bad, Mark. That’s too bad.” Then they would walk on. Pretty soon Mark got so he would wake up at night and scream. His housekeeper left him.

They put Mark away in Doe Smith’s sanatorium. Everybody says it’s too bad and they can’t imagine how Mark Melcher ever got the idea that he killed Old Man Fellows.

But then, Willowville folks don’t know to this day that Emily Holden was Mark Melcher’s daughter, that Mark had never been married, and that Old Man Fellows was the Only human being on earth who knew those things.

The end