Horner had already leaped back to his feet, the glass falling and ice cubes bouncing across the rug. “What the hell did you say!” he shouted.
“I remembered your insistence that I keep with it till the atomizer was exhausted, even though my throat cleared up well before,” said Benrud. “And afterward you asked for the atomizer back. Now what’s a two-bit gadget like that to you?”
“For God’s sake,” whispered Horner. “You’re out of your head.”
“Perhaps.” Benrud took another long swallow. He was careful not to move. The big man could tie him in knots, if need be. “Why did you want
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that atomizer back?” he asked. “Where is it now? Who is this chemist friend of yours and what’s his address?”
“I Look here, Harry, you’re sick. Let me help you to bed.”
“Give me the guy’s name and address,” said Benrud, smiling a little. “I’ll write, and if he answers I’ll beg your humble pardon.”
“He died,” said Horner. He stood with fists hanging at his sides, looking straight at the other man without blinking much. His voice fell flatly.
“Well, tell me his name and address anyway. Alive or dead, this thing can be checked up on, you know. After all, Jim, I want to be sure about my family’s future protector.”
Horner smacked one fist into an open palm. His mouth stretched to show the large well-cared-for teeth. Horner had always been uncommon fond of his own excellent body. “I tell you, you’re delirious,” he said. He stood for a moment, thinking. Then, abruptly: “What is it you want?”
“Proof about that chemist.”
“What chemist? Nobody mentioned any chemist. You’re sick and imagining things.”
Benrud sighed. He was suddenly very tired again.
“Let’s not go through that rigmarole,” he said. “I know what a fever feels like. I haven’t got one.”
Horner stood motionless, the loose sports shirt wrinkling as he breathed in and out, effortlessly in his health. He said at last, looking away: “You might as well forget it, Harry. It couldn’t be proven, you know.”
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“I know,” said Benrud. “If I spoke, you could convince Moira that my brain had gone as rotten as my lungs. I don’t want her to remember me like that.”
Horner sat down once again. Benrud would have found it easier to go on had the man shown a flicker of dark enjoyment, but his face might have looked across any midnight poker table, in any of the games they had had. Benrud coughed, it ripped within him, and he hoped he could get this over with soon.
“I’m sorry,” said Horner in a dull tone. Perhaps he even meant it.
“So am I,” wheezed Benrud. Presently: “But I’m human enough to want some revenge. It would be nice to convict you. California uses the gas chamber for premeditating murderers exquisitely sadistic. Not to mention all the prior annoyances. You would never plead guilty, no matter how bad it looked; you’d suffer all the procedure.”
“Because I’m not guilty,” said Horner.
“If you’re not, then answer my questions.”
“Oh, forget it! I’m going home.”
“One minute,” said Benrud. “How do you know I haven’t poisoned your whisky?”
Horner sat altogether still. The color drained from him.
“As I was saying, Jim,” said Benrud, “you’re a fighter. And, I now believe, an ultimate sort of egotist, pleasant enough, companionable enough, but when all the cards are down you are a man who doesn’t believe that anything but himself really exists. So you’ll put up a fight, if charged
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with murder. No guilty plea, nothing so helpful, to earn a lesser sentence. And you’ll sit in the chair holding your breath till your lungs can’t stand it any longer.”
“Did you poison it?” mumbled Horner.
“Motives can be found easily enough, of course,” said Benrud.
Sweat glistened like oil on Horner’s face.
“Money, jealousy. You could have”
“Did you poison that drink?” Horner asked like an old man.
“No,” said Benrud. “I don’t want Moira to remember me that way, either. Or even as a suicide.”
He stood up. Horner rose too, shivering a little, though the night was summery. Benrud picked up the knife with some care. His own fingerprints on it wouldn’t matter, for Horner’s were certainly there in abundance.