"Don't get ideas, Baby," he said in the same deadly smooth tone. "Ideas might not be healthy." Time To Kill Time hung heavy over the little flat and bitter destiny was in the air, all because Mabel had picked up a flashy offering at the husband counter. By ERNIE COX The room was shabby and threadbare. Mabel sat at the window and looked out on a depressing row of tenement rooftops. She glanced at the clock standing on a chest of drawers. Seven o'clock. Max had just gone out. He had taken the gun again tonight. Tomorrow the cops would probably come and question him about something. She knew they had Max on their list. They always showed up to question him after a burglary or holdup. But they never caught him. Somehow he always had an alibi. She sighed, brushed back stringy blonde hair with trembling fingers and smoothed out the purple dress she was wearing. The dress was the only thing Max had ever given her. It was typical of his flashy taste. He had bought the dress a year ago when she was still in the ticket booth at the Rialto theater on 65th street. Big, flashy Max, wearing a yellow tie and two-tone sport jacket, had taken notice of her. Flatteringly, she thought then. She had refused to go out the first night, so he'd think she had another date. The second night he was back. She went with him on a whirlwind round of night spots. In a month they were married. Several weeks later she realized her terrible mistake. She should have left him then, she reflected. But Mabel was the sticking page six kind. Now she was in so far she couldn't get out. She knew that now. . . as surely as she knew Max would ruin her if she stayed with him. Max had no job. He went out nights and came back late. He always had money. When he ran low he'd go out late at night. He always came back with more money. Things got worse from the day she found the pistol. It was just a cheap little nickel-plated automatic. He had left it in the coat pocket of a suit he had worn the night before when he came in with more money. When she asked about it, he snapped, "Mind your own business. You're eating, ain't you?" "I don't want to eat this way, Max," she said bitterly. "If you can't earn a decent living, I'll go back to work." He slapped her hard on the cheek. "Don't ever say that again. I'll get all the money we need." She fell back, stunned. "Maybe I'm getting sick of living like this, Max. Living on this kind of money." "What kind of money, Baby?" he asked harshly, his face ugly with rage. "The kind of money you get with that gun." He gripped her arm viciously. "Listen, Baby, if anyone should ask you, I get my money in lucky crap games." He squeezed her arm until it ached. "Got that?" "Yes, Max." "Don't forget it," he warned, releasing her. She bit her lip. "Maybe I'll be mad enough to leave you some day, too. Max froze. "That wouldn't be smart, Baby. Not a bit smart." The shiny little gun, cradled carelessly in his hand, pointed toward her. The next three weeks were like a nightmare. Max sleeping until noon each day, going out at night, returning in the small hours with more money. Several times she thought about going to the police. Why not tell them the whole story and ask for protection? What if they didn't believe her? What if they told her to go home and act like nothing had happened? What if some of Max's friends saw her going to the police station? She kept seeing Max's gun pointed at her, and the evil grin behind that gun. At the last minute she lost her nerve. Once Officer Clancy, the big, red-faced cop on the beat, came to the apartment. There had been a holdup at 1 a. m. the night before. A lone bandit had stuck-up a neighborhood bartender at closing time and escaped with several hundred dollars from the cash register. The holdup man had worn a mask. Clancy knew Max wasn't working. He'd found that out on the first visit months before. It bothered Clancy, being a good cop, because he couldn't figure where Max got his money. He asked Max a lot of questions about the night before. Max said he got home at 12 o'clock. He looked at Mabel. Officer Clancy looked at Mabel. She nodded slowly. "He was home by 12 o'clock," she said mechanically. How could she tell if Clancy believed her? What difference did it make what she said? Any wife would alibi her husband. Why didn't he arrest Max and get it over with? But Clancy, with a bored expression, turned and ambled out of the apartment. When Clancy had gone, Mabel said, "You held up that bartender, didn't you?" He gave her a cold stare. "How could I? You said yourself I was home by midnight, Baby." She shuddered. "What else could I say!" Her husband grinned unpleasantly, brought out the nickel-plated automatic and balanced it affectionately in his hand. "That's right, Baby. No matter what happens. I'm always in before midnight. Got it?" Fear held her in the cold fingers of a paralyzing grip. "Yes, Max." That was three days ago. He had stayed home two nights in a row. But tonight he had gone again. Mabel sat by the window, staring hypnotically over the roofs at the lighted eyes of tall buildings in the distance as her mind travelled back across the crazy-quilt pattern of the past year. She was still sitting there hours later when Max came up the rickety stairs and opened the door of the apartment. "What you doin' up?" he demanded in a quick, unnatural voice. She didn't answer. Her eyes turned slowly toward the clock. The hands pointed to five minutes past one. Then she looked at Max and her eyes widened with horror. "There's blood on your hands!" He glanced down quickly. "I ... I had a little accident." He started toward the bathroom, then turned slowly toward Mabel. "You didn't see any blood," he told her evenly. "Don't forget that." He threw his coat on the bed and went into the bathroom. She heard the splashing of water and the slapping sound of soapy hands rubbing together. Finally he emerged, flushed and excited. "And remember," he instructed, "I got in at midnight." "Yes, Max. Midnight." He walked quickly into the bedroom. In a moment she heard the flat sound of metal against metal. She walked to the bedroom door. Max was seated in front of the dresser, cleaning the automatic. "What are you doing that for?" He looked up surlily. "Dammit, can't I clean my gun if I want to?" She watched him while he frowned and lovingly polished the separate pieces of the gun. "You shot somebody tonight, Max," she said tonelessly. Deftly he fitted the pieces back together, clicked the magazine of cartridges into place, slid the mechanism back and forth to put a shell in the chamber. "Don't get ideas, Baby," he said in the same deadly smooth tone. "Ideas might not be healthy." He took a long drink of whiskey from a bottle on the dresser. "Let's turn in. It's getting late." He flipped back the bed covers and started undressing. First he put the little automatic under his pillow, then stripped down to his shorts and climbed into bed. Mabel went into the living room, wound the clock and set it. It was late all right, she agreed. She stared at the clock a long time, then snapped off the ( light, undressed and went into the bedroom. In a few minutes Max was snoring heavily. She lay trembling beside him. The clock ticked loudly. The next morning she went to the drugstore for aspirin before Max got up. She bought a morning paper but left it on the counter after reading what she was looking for. (continued on page 23) page seven