I waited fifteen minutes more, then left the bar.
There were two elevators in the building, but only one was running at this time of night. I began looking at the office directory.
"Help you with somethin', mister?"
I shook my head without looking around.
He muttered something under his breath, and his stool creaked as he sat down again. Then the elevator signal buzzed, and he said "Goddam" and he got up and rattled the control.
"Going up, mister!"
I didn't say anything and I didn't look around. He banged the door shut and the car went up. I jerked open the door to the stairs and raced up them.
At the third floor landing I heard the elevator coming down, and I waited until its lights flashed on the foyer and disappeared. Then I ran down the corridor and around the corner, jerking the gloves over my hands.
Eggleston's outer office, the reception room, had a long pebble-glassed transom extending from the wall to the door casing. A short metal chain at each end allowed it to hang open a few inches.
I cut the chains with the wire snips and let the transom drop gently inward. I swung myself up and through the opening. I landed inside, swinging my feet just in time to avoid crashing down on a chair. I pushed the chair beneath the transom, climbed up on it, and took out the adhesive tape. I moved the transom back in its original position and taped the chains together again.
I sat down and rested.
My wrist watch said seven o'clock now. Eggleston had been gone approximately thirty minutes. Since our appointment was for eight, he'd hardly return before another half hour. That left me a lot of time… to do what?
I started to light a cigarette, then put the package and the match back in my pocket. He might notice the smoke. Someone might notice the flare of the match.
I turned the pencil-beam of the flashlight on my watch again. Thirty minutes or more and not much to do but wait. I didn't know what to look for. At any rate, he'd hardly leave anything like this on paper. It would be in his head, something he could tell me.
I wondered how hard it would be to make him talk.
I hefted the wire snips, and stood up. How close to the door could I stand without being seen against the glass? And which side would be best to stand on? Here on the left or on the other side, where I could be behind it when it opened?
Probably here. He might sense something and he'd be armed. I might not be able to get out from behind the door fast enough.
I sat down and waited. And gradually, I felt my head turning toward the right, toward the door of the inner office. It was closed and the office was dark, and of course he wasn't there. He wouldn't be sitting in there in the dark. He hadn't expected me to do what I had, so why would he be there?
I thought that one over, and my head kept turning toward the door. And finally I got up and walked over to it, and turned the knob.
It was unlocked.
I pushed it open slowly.
I ducked back and flattened myself against the partition, and then I moved away from it and stepped inside and flicked on the flashlight.
The beam moved across the desk. He was bent forward a little on his elbows; his hands lay on top of each other carelessly; and the chair was drawn close to the desk, holding his body against it. He wouldn't be talking that night or any other. He was through talking for all time.
21
I knew what had happened before I looked at his head. He had pulled the chair up close to the desk and put his elbows on it, because he had wanted to count something, money, and that was the natural way to do it. He had sat there counting, his suspicions lulled by the fact that the money had been paid quietly, without argument. And then the person-the man or woman-who had handed it over so readily
I moved the flashlight. I couldn't see his face; his chin was resting on his chest, and his hat was pulled too low. But I could see his head, even with the hat on. Part of it was oozing right out through the crown of the hat. He'd never known what hit him.
I wasn't sorry he was dead. I'd seen good men killed for no reason, and he hadn't been good or even fair. He'd meant to collect from both sides, from one for keeping quiet and from the other-from me-for talking. I might have foreseen that he would try that. The murderer had.
I walked around the desk and opened a drawer. There was nothing in it but a pipe, a can of tobacco and a half-empty pint of cheap whiskey.
If there was anything significant in the thin file of letters, the dog-eared ledger, or the several dozen receipted and unreceipted bills, I didn't know what it was. Probably there wasn't anything. I felt his pockets as best I could without moving him. I found a few pads of matches, a wallet containing his credentials, and six dollars, a package and a half of cigarettes and a fully-loaded.32 automatic.
I put those things back where I'd found them, and looked down at the desk. There was nothing on it but a day-to-day calendar. The date showing was the following day.
I didn't think anything of it for a moment. I turned away and looked around the room carefully, trying to find-I don't know what I was trying to find.
I looked down at the calendar again, and then it came to me. It wasn't a mistake. This was one day that Eggleston wouldn't have slipped up on.
I flipped back one of the little white leaflets. There was the date, today, and scrawled across it were two notations:
Mrs. Luth. 5:45
P. Cos 8:00
I pulled it loose from the staples and tore it into shreds. I went through the expired calendar slips and tore off a dozen or more of them. I dropped them into the sink, burned them into ashes and flushed them down the drain. One missing slip might mean something. A number of missing ones wouldn't.
The phone rang, and I jumped. I moved back from it automatically, and then I lifted it up, let it bang against the desk and held the receiver against my ear.
I waited. And whoever was calling waited. At last there was a whisper, "Mr. Eggleston?"
I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. You can't tell with whispers. "The same," I whispered back.
"I can't talk very loud, Mr. Eggleston."
"I'm in the same position."
That sounded like him, I hoped.
"I'm sorry I couldn't keep our appointment, Mr. Eggleston. Personally. Was it all right?"
"I'm afraid it isn't," I whispered. "I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you come down."
"That's impossible."
I didn't say anything.
"Why is it necessary for me to come down?"
"I think you know why."
"You got the money, didn't you? You were taken care of?"
It wasn't going to work. I wasn't going to get him or her to come down. That left only one thing to do. Startle that whisper into a recognizable voice.
"Yes," I said, in a deeper whisper. "I'm all taken care of. I'm sitting here with the top of my head bashed in. Dead."