If Death Ever Slept

He licked his lips, shot me a glance, and turned back to her. “All right, hand me the mail.”

She got it from a drawer of her desk and took it to him. If you think it would have been natural for it to be on his desk waiting for him you’re quite right, but in that case it would have been exposed to the view of the new secretary, and that wouldn’t do. After sticking around a while longer I asked Jarrell if I was wanted, was told not until after dinner, and left them and went up to my room.

I can’t tell you the exact minute that Jarrell came dashing in, yelling at me, but I can come close. It was a quarter to six when I decided to shower and shave before going down to the lounge for cocktails, and my par for that operation when I’m not pressed is half an hour, and I was pulling on my pants when the door flew open and he was there yapping, “Come on!” Seeing me, he was off down the hall, yapping again. “Come on!” It seemed that the occasion was informal enough not to demand socks and shoes, so I merely got my shirttail in, and fastened my belt and closed my zipper en route. I could hear him bounding down the stairs, and made for them and on down, and turned the corner just as he reached the library door. As I came up he tried the knob and then stood and stared at it.

“It’s locked,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Horland’s phoned. He said the signal flashed and the screen showed the door opening and a blanket or rug coming in. He’s sending a man. There’s somebody in there. There must be.”

“Then open the door.”

“Horland’s said to wait till his man got here.”

“Nuts. I will.” Then I realized I couldn’t. My key, along with my other belongings, was up on the dresser. “Give me your key.”

He got out his key fold and handed it to me, and I picked one and stuck it in the slot. “It’s just possible,” I said, “that we’ll be rushed. Move over.” He did so. I got behind the jamb, turned the key and the knob, pushed on the door with my bare toes, and it swung open. Nothing happened. I said, “Stay here,” and stepped inside. Nothing and no one. I went and took a look, behind desks, around corners of cabinets and shelves, in the closet, and in the bathroom. I was going to call to him to come on in when the sound came of footsteps pounding down the corridor, and I reached the door in time to see the reinforcement arrive-a middle-aged athlete in a gray uniform. He wasn’t one that I knew. He was panting, and he had a gun in his hand.