The box was secured around the edges, and she inserted the paring knife as she would have with a carton of soda crackers. She slit it open down one side, up the next.
Except this was not a carton of soda crackers.
This was — oh, how odd — a do–it–yourself kit. A modern marvel like all the new do–it–yourself marvels. Do–it–yourself house painting setups, and do–it–yourself baked Alaska mix, and do–it–yourself this and that and the other thing. There were even advertisements for do–it–yourself brain surgery kits and swamp digging kits, for chassis aligning kits and pruning kits. But this was no longer something offered in an advertisement; once it had been, but now it was a reality, and she held it in her hands. As much of that advertised breed as any do–it–yourself bookcase–construction kit, outfitted to the last set screw.
This was a particular kind of kit Madge had purchased:
To be precise, a do–it–yourself murder kit.
Idly, as though without conscious direction, her eyes strayed to the magazine spindle where DO–IT–YOURSELF MONTHLY was canned up against Carl’s FLIK–PIX and her own mundane BEST HOUSEKEEPING. Her eyes lingered for an instant, drank in through the impeding plastic of the container and the other spools the classified advertisement near the end of the mag–reel . . . and passed on around the room.
It was a nice room. A solid room, furnished in tasteful period furniture without too many curlicues and just enough modern angles. But it was mediocrity, and what else was there to say of it but that it typified her life with Carl. Mediocrity disturbed Madge Rubichek, as did the slovenly day–to–day existence of her husband.
For Madge Rubichek was a methodical woman.
She sighed resignedly, and busied herself lifting the top from the carton. It was a long, moderately–thin package, of typical brown box–plastboard. Her name had been neatly stated on the address label, and there was no return address.
“Well, impractical, but necessary,” she mused aloud, “but what a lot of merchandise they must lose,” she added. Then it dawned on her that she had signed a return receipt, and that meant the boy who had come to the door must have gotten the carton from a central delivery robotic mailer, or else . . .
Oh, it was too deep for her to worry about. They must have some way of insuring delivery. She set the box top beside her chair, and pulled away the tissue paper double–folded over the carton’s contents.
What odd–looking mechanisms. Even for 1977, which Madge had always called — in the sanctum of her mind, where profanity was permitted — ”too damned machiney for its own good!” these were strange.
There was a long, thin, coiled sticky–looking tube of gray something–or–other with a valve at one end, and a blow–nozzle attached. Was it one of those dragon balloons that you blew up so big? But what did that have to do with —
She would not think of what this kit had been invented to do. She would look at it as though it were some labor-saving household appliance, like her Dinner Dialer (that did not dial at all, but was punched, instead) or her Dustomat. Well, and she giggled, wasn’t it?
Do–it–by–golly–yourself!
Beside the coil of gray tubing, hooked to it by soft wire and wrapped in tissue paper like a Christmas necklace, was another small parcel. She lifted it out, surprised at its heaviness, and stripped away the tissue.
It was a small glass square, obviously a bottle of some sort, filled with a murky, mercurial–seeming liquid that moved rapidly as she turned the container, sending up no air bubbles as it roiled in the bottle. It had a tiny, pin–like protuberance at one corner, with a boot fastened down on it, easily snapped off to open the vial. Quicksilver? She found this item as mystifying as the preceding one. She stared at it a moment longer, with no apparent function coming to mind, and then she laid it aside.
It slipped down behind the chair’s pillow, and she retrieved it at once, without examining the carton further.
Madge Rubichek was a methodical woman.
The next was a layer in itself; rather thick and quite black, it was almost of the consistency of an old beach ball, or a fish skin without scales, or —
What?
Rotten flesh . . . perhaps. Though she had no conception of what rotten flesh felt like. Or something.
She pulled it free, and almost immediately let it drop into the leaning carton top beside her chair. She just didn’t want to touch it. Mental images of dead babies and salamanders and polyethylene bags filled with vomit came to mind when her fingers touched that night–black stuff.
She dropped it free, and found beneath it a pamphlet without a title, and a small glass globe with all the attributes of a snowstorm paperweight, the kind her Grandfather had had on his desk in the old law offices in Prestonsburg. It was on an onyx stand of some cheap material, and the globe itself swirled and frothed with the artificial whateveritwas inside. But there was no little town once the snow settled, and no large–thoraxed snowman with anthracite eyes, and no church. There was nothing in there but the lacy swirlingness. The snow just continued to whirl about, no matter how long it lay in one position. It would not settle.
She put it beside her on the chair, and nudged the carton, now empty, off her lap. She took the pamphlet in her hands, and opened it to the first page.
“Hello,” it said.
It did not read hello, it said hello. In a rich baritone, vaguely reminiscent of old–fashioned styrene records she had heard of pressings taken off even older platters made by Peter Ustinov, a mimic comedian of the Fifties. It was in many ways a comforting voice, and one that was subtly reassuring, as well as inviting attention and forthrightness of manner, clarity of thinking, boldness of approach.
It was a mellow and warm voice.
It was, apparently, the voice of murder.
“Hello,” it said again, and this time there was a tinge of apprehension in its voice, as though it was not certain there was anyone on the holding end of the pamphlet.
“Uh, hello,” she replied, not at all certain it was good taste to be conversing with a pamphlet. There was, in fact, a sense of Carrollian madness about it. Had a Dormouse erupted from the delicate Chinese teapot on the coffee table before the sofa, clearly enunciating Twinkle, twinkle, little bat . . . she would not have been overly surprised; it would have fitted in nicely.
“This is your own Do–It–Yourself Murder Kit,” the pamphlet broke her literary reverie with harsh reality. “The new guaranteed Murder Kit, with the double–your–money–back warranty, for your protection.”
Well, she thought, frugally, that’s nice, anyway. That double–your– money–back thing. She shivered a little with suppressed anticipation. There was going to be profit . . . one way . . . or the other.
“Uh, where are you?” Madge asked nervously.
“Where am I where?” the pamphlet responded in confusion.
“Yes, precisely,” she concurred.
“Dear Purchaser, you are perplexing me,” cried the pamphlet. “If you wish to carry forward smartly to the objective for which this Kit was designed, please do not strain my conversational and analytical faculties.”
“But I only — ”
“Madam, if you desire success, you must put yourself wholly in my — er — hands. Do I make myself clear?”
Madge drew herself up, and an expression of haughty resignation suffused her face. “I understand quite well, thank you.” After all, Grandfather Tabakow on her mother’s side had been Southern aristocracy, well hadn’t he? She felt imposed upon, this mere booklet talking to her that way.
And a booklet without even the common self–respect of having a title. After all, a title–less pamphlet.
And wasn’t the customer always supposed to be right?
It didn’t seem so with this Kit.
The phrase nouveau riche flitted across Madge’s mind, with ill concealed co
ntempt.
“This guaranteed Murder Kit,” the voice continued, “was shipped to you by our robotic mailer. There is no record of its sale in our hands. So in case you wish to exercise the warranty you must return the numbered warranty sheet on the last page of this pamphlet. To return the numbered warranty sheet to our files, merely burn same in a non–chemical fire; this will automatically cancel the sympathetic–sheet in our files, and your money will be doubly, cheerfully refunded.
“This Kit contains three sure, clean and undetectable, I repeat, undetectable, ways to commit murder. No two kits are the same, though repetition occasionally occurs where the subjects to be murdered have common character traits. Again, though, no two kits are the same. Each of the three modus operandi is designed for you according to the application blank you sent us when you contracted for this Kit. Now, to prepare yourself for your murder — ”
She snapped the pamphlet shut with quick, suddenly–sweating hands.
Do I hate him that much?
Where had their marriage gone wrong . . . somewhere in the eleven years? Where? An infinite sadness stole over her as she remembered Carl the way he had been when they first met. She remembered his ways, that had seemed rough and yet gentle, masculine yet graceful. And she recalled her own aristocratic nature, the fine background, and the womanly ways. But how had it changed? How was it now?
She conjured up visions of it now. The ashes on the carpets and the smell of musty cigar smoke that stayed in the curtains and chair coverings no matter how much she aired and cleaned. She remembered the fat, nasty belly of the man while he sat pouring bockbeer down his dribble-chinned throat, the clothes rank with sweat strewn across her immaculate bedroom, the rings in the bathtub, his rotten teeth and the nasty odor when he kissed her . . .
And of course the quick animal urges all panting and grunting that were as nothing to her. Nothing but revulsion.
She answered her question firmly: Yes, yes, I hate him that much. And more!
She opened the pamphlet again. Her hands had become dry and almost cool again.
“The first method of murder we have prepared for you,” the pamphlet’s voice continued, undaunted, “is the rabid dog method. You will notice a coil of gray substance. This is your Animaux Tube. Warning is issued at this point that instructions throughout the use of this Kit must be specifically followed, or failure will result. There is no mechanical failure possible with this Kit, only human failure through inefficiency and disregard of stated operating procedures. Is this understood?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Madge answered, surlily.
“With your Animaux Tube, attached by wire, is a vial of Essence, a specially–produced, copyrighted substance to be used only with the Animaux Tube. Again warning is issued to preclude any ill–use of materials included in your Kit. Unspecified use of the Essence included in your Kit will prove most unpleasant. In the human digestive tract it reacts violently, causing almost immediate convulsions and death. Care should be exercised to keep the vial away from children and pets.”
She lifted the coil of stuff and it was sticky. After spreading a sheet of newsfax on the rug, she allowed the gray tubing to unroll itself out onto the fax sheet. There was no sense ruining a good rug with any odd chemicals from this Kit. She had always been a methodically neat woman, and just because she was doing what she was doing, was no reason to become a crude slob — like Carl.
The coil unrolled and it had queer blotches on it, almost like military camouflage canvas. What it was, she still could not ascertain.
“Take some article of clothing belonging to the intended victim,” the pamphlet voice continued, startling her, “and place a small piece of it firmly against the Animaux Tube, on the orange blotch near its front. Press it, and it will adhere. Then inflate the Tube by blowing gently and evenly into the nozzle. Only after the Animaux Tube has been inflated should the Essence then be added. Screw the vial of Essence onto the air valve and allow it to drain completely into the Animaux Tube. Make certain that every drop enters. You will then have your Animaux rabid dog. Set the dog loose when the intended victim is near and it will inflict a bite wound that cannot be cured by regular methods; a bite wound that will cause violent death within a matter of minutes.”
She used one of his socks, holding it as far away from her as possible. It was hideously pungent and ripe after only one wearing. The dog itself took shape quickly. The Tube seemed to retain the air blown into it; there was no blowback.
The surge of anticipation turned her hands clumsy when she hooked the Essence to the blown–up Tube and a few drops spilled onto the newsfax underneath it.
The thing moved softly. It looked for all the world like a medium-sized mongrel dog of no apparent lineage.
It limped toward the door and stood there whining, its jaws slavering hideously.
“Not for a few more minutes,” she told it soothingly, afraid of it herself, yet exhilarated by what she was doing, what was to be done soon enough. “He won’t be getting off the slipway for a few minutes.” She spent the time neatly hiding the rest of the Kit and the now–silent pamphlet in her clothes closet, at the bottom of a moth–proof garment safette. Then, when it was time, she let the dog out.
Carl came gruffily into the house, cursing foully, and her heart sank.
The hairy arms surrounded her like a scratching womb, and she stood passively hoping for a blast of lightning that would char him on the spot, and damn the rug damage! She could smell his teeth rotting in his head.
“Damn dog tried t’bite me when I got offa the expresswalk. Thing musta been sick.” He nodded proudly, “Kicked it an’ the sonofabitch died right there. Real soggy mess,” and he laughed imbecilically. “Never even touched me.”
The next morning, as soon as he had slipped to work, as soon as she had watched the slipway carry him out of sight over the horizon to the Bactericidal Dome, she went to get the Do–It–Yourself Murder Kit. She took the Kit from its hiding place at the bottom of the moth–proof garment safette, and carried it into the dining nook. She was really annoyed; this Kit had not cost a pittance, and she wanted value for her money.
She punched herself a second cup of coffee — black with Saccha — and opened the pamphlet again.
“If you failed,” the booklet began, as though anticipating her anger, “it was, as I warned you, through human error, and not on the part of this Kit. Was your murder a success?”
“No!” she answered, in a consummate pique.
The pamphlet was silent for an instant, as though refraining from taking offense. Then it began: “If you have not succeeded, attribute your failure to one of the following:
“One. You snagged your Animaux Tube and it was not fully inflated, or later lost air.
“Two. You did not allow the Essence to fill the Tube completely. Perhaps you spilled a portion.
“Three. You prepared your rabid dog for the scent improperly.
“Four. You did not attach your Essence vial properly, causing irreparable damage from leakage.
“Well, does one of these fit your case?”
The pamphlet waited, and she remembered the few drops of substance that had trickled free in her eagerness to set the dog loose on Carl. She mumbled something.
“What?” asked the pamphlet.
“I said: I spilled some!” she confessed loudly, shamefacedly, toying with the sip–tip of her coffee bulb.
“Ah so,” the pamphlet agreed. “Undoubtedly, certain vital organs were not properly formed and stabilized, thus causing a malfunction of the pseudo–beast.”
Recollections formed of the evening before, and she saw the rabid animal again, froth dripping from its viciously–spiked jaws . . . limping and whining. So that was it. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She would follow the instructions more carefully in the future.
Madge Rubichek was a methodical woman.
&nb
sp; “What do I do now?” she asked.
The pamphlet seemed to make a snickering sound, as if it were acknowledging her loss of annoyance at it, and her own recognized sense of failure, her inferiority. It might be said the pamphlet was its own brand of snob.
Then its snideness disappeared, and the booklet advised, “Remove the Deadly Nightshade from your Kit. Be careful not to spread it out. Repeat, do not unfold it!”
She knew at once what was meant. The black sheet with the horrible feeling of dead flesh.
She hesitated to touch it, so repulsive was the tactile impression it offered; nonetheless, she reached into the Kit and brought out the layer of softly–folded, unbelievably black, ghastly–feeling material. She dropped it at her feet.
“Are you ready?” asked the pamphlet.
She started violently. It was uncanny the way that thing knew what and when and how and oh well . . . it was supposed to, wasn’t it? But so creepy!
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent. Now this second method allows less room for human error. However, it is more dangerous, and more complex. Your three methods of murder are offered in order of increasing effort and danger. Sequentially, they are held so the simplest can be allowed to work first, thus denying the element of failure and discovery as much as possible.
“Your Deadly Nightshade is nearly flawless. If you follow my instructions to the exact letter precisely — and I cannot stress this enough — you will have accomplished your desire by morning.
“Your Deadly Nightshade is a copyrighted, patented — ” and it reeled off, in a bored voice, a string of Guatemalan Patent Authority designates, “ — exclusive with the Do–It–Yourself Murder Kit.” She realized at once that the voice was huckstering out of necessity, that it found such commercialism odious, vulgar and tedious.
“It will provide night,” the pamphlet said. “Night for the purpose you seek. Here is how it is used:
“Place it in the bedroom of the one you wish to eliminate. It is very important that this be done precisely as directed. On no account should you, after placing the Deadly Nightshade in the bedroom, re–enter it before the intended victim. The Deadly Nightshade acts as a controlled form of narcolepsy, by the release of hypnotically–keyed visual and mental depressants. The intended victim is cast into a hypnotic spell of long night. In three days he or she will sleep all life away. The room will be a place of perpetual darkness to him or her and slowly the vital bodily functions will fail and cease, beginning with the flow of blood to the brain.