Sidney Bruhl was not dead. Not really, at any rate... It seemed that as Cliff Anderson had raised his arm, crossbow arrow clutched in his bloody hand, he had died. The tip of the soiled arrow had poked Sidney's midriff, but nothing worse than that... besides ruining a good sweatervest.
It was pretty amazing, actually, that Cliff had died first. Who knew what would have happened otherwise? He laughed bitterly, and re-dialed the police, putting on his best nervously-horrified voice.
"Hello, this is Sidney Bruhl again... yes, B-R-U-H-L... I'm sorry about before, you see, my secretary wasn't completely dead, and he was even more upset that I'd shot him with that crossbow. No, I swear... Thank you. Yes, I'll be waiting."
As he hung up the reciever of the telephone, he grinned to himself and leaned back in the chair behind his desk. He wasn't dead. For a moment there, he had thought... but, no. Cliff was in a pool of blood on the floor, Myra was tucked away under ground, Porter Milgrim had confirmed that Cliff was a dangerous suspect, and Helga ten Dorp's vision had come to pass.
But he wasn't dead. And he was very glad to not have to pretend to be gay anymore.
When he had met Clifford Anderson at the seminar he had conducted last summer, Sidney had invited him to lunch. They had gone down to a local restraunt, talked, and -- being the expert at decifering mannerisms that he was -- Sidney had decided that Cliff was gay. He asked, prudently enough, and got his answer.
"Um... yes. I am... why do you ask?"
That was when his mind had come up with the idea that would rid him of his wife and gain him at least twenty-five thousand dollars. He would do anything to get this kid to help him... which is why he answered:
"Well, because I am too, you see, and I was wondering if you could help me with something,"
Lucky for him, Cliff hadn't been moral, and would also do anything for what he wanted.
Thus, the Deathtrap charade had been devised. The two of them practiced once a week for a whole year, as Sidney built up the tension at home. In the August after he had met Cliff, he started telling people Myra was under the weather. In October, she died of a fatal heart attack. No one would ever guess Sidney had anything to do with it.
He sighed happily, thoroughly enjoying the fact that he had won out in the end. No more nosy wife, no more acting, no more fear that Cliff's Deathtrap would be published and performed... Which reminded him.
He stood and walked over to Cliff's bag, pulled out the Deathtrap manuscript, and dropped it in the fireplace, chuckling to himself. "He was such a good secretary," he said to the empty house, his pitiful tone echoing slightly. "So helpful... He didn't seem violent when he was first here, but I guess appearances can be decieving... He did so much for me -- how can I go on without him?"
He struck a match on a brick from the fireplace, and smiled as yet another of his problems was eliminated. The police arrived fifteen minutes later, and by then the ashes had been swept out of the fireplace and down the toilet.