The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 23 Classic Mystery Stories

When we left Brinker’s office, I came away with the feeling that he really didn’t have much hope of acquittal, but had been optimistic merely for Martha’s benefit. From her pinched expression, I suspected she had gotten the same impression, but I didn’t mention it.

By now Martha seemed well enough not to require me underfoot any longer. She moved Tod back home and I returned to my apartment. Periodically I dropped by to check on her, and while she seemed terribly depressed, she was holding up well enough to function.

Trial had been set for six weeks after the arrest, which put it in mid-May. A week beforehand I happened to be in the city room when a call came in that there was a murder on Dover Place, down on the south side. I volunteered to go out on it, and thus got the assignment.

I didn’t realize until I got down there that Dover Place was the street just south of Bellerive Boulevard. The house was the one whose back faced the rear of Lyle’s and Martha’s.

There were several people inside in the front room: a couple of uniformed cops, a man from the police lab, a dazed-looking man of about thirty seated in an easy chair, and Sergeant Fritz Burmeister. The lab man was just leaving, apparently having finished his work.

When I glanced curiously at the seated man, Burmeister said, “Husband. Come on upstairs.”

I followed him up the stairs. In the same bedroom I had once looked into from Martha’s kitchen window, the same blonde I had watched undress lay on the bed wearing a filmy nightgown. Her face was purple and was horribly bloated because a nylon stocking had been knotted tightly around her throat.

“Husband found her when he came home this morning,” the sergeant said wearily. “He works nights. Same old story. No sexual assault, no prints. Both doors have inside bolts. A small square was neatly cut out of the glass pane in the back door, right next to the bolt. As usual, the second stocking is missing.”

I tore my gaze away from the dead woman. “What’s this do for Lyle?” I asked.

“Clears him,” he said in the same weary voice. “How the hell could he be the Stocking Killer when he’s locked in a maximum security cell?”

That’s almost the end of the story. Lyle was released with full apologies and again he and Martha seem radiantly happy.

There have been no more Stocking Killer murders, but recently I’ve been thinking. I keep remembering Martha saying, “The way I feel about Lyle, I’d continue to love him even if he became a raving maniac. I’d do anything in the world for him.”

I also keep remembering that Martha had judo training when she was an Army nurse. An hour a week for twelve weeks, I think she said, certainly not enough to win her a black belt, but maybe enough to handle another woman not much larger than herself.

Anybody can buy a glass cutter. They’re on sale in every dime store.

Martha doesn’t work at the hospital nights anymore either. Now she’s on call only for days, and arranges for a baby-sitter when she’s called in.

The last time they had me down to dinner, little Tod took me down to the basement to show me something. The partition had been taken down and there was no longer a television repair shop there.

I was afraid to ask why Lyle had gotten out of the TV repair business, but I can’t help wondering if Martha insisted on it, just to remove future temptation.