If Death Ever Slept

I slept all right, I always sleep, but woke up at seven o’clock. I turned over and shut my eyes again, but nothing doing. I was awake. It was a damn nuisance. I would have liked to get up and dress and go down to the studio and hear the eight o’clock news. It had been exactly ten-thirty when I had phoned headquarters to tell them, in falsetto, that they had better take a look at a certain apartment at a certain number on 49th Street, and by now the news would be out and I wanted to hear it. But on Tuesday I had appeared for breakfast at 9:25, on Wednesday at 10:15, and on Thursday at 9:20, and if I shattered precedent by showing before eight, making for the radio, and announcing what I had heard to anyone available-and it would be remarkable not to announce it-someone might have wondered how come. So when my eyes wouldn’t stay closed no matter which side I tried, I lay on my back and let them stay open, hoping they liked the ceiling. They didn’t. They kept turning-up, down, right, left. I got the impression that they were trying to turn clear over to see inside. When I found myself wondering what would happen if they actually made it I decided that had gone far enough, kicked the sheet off, and got up.

I took my time in the shower, and shaving, and putting cuff links in a clean shirt, and other details; and history repeated itself. I was pulling on my pants, getting the second leg through, when there was a knock at the door, and nothing timid about it. I called out, “Who is it?”, and for reply the door opened, and Jarrell walked in.

I spoke. “Good morning. Come some time when I’ve got my shoes on.”

He had closed the door. “This can’t wait. Jim Eber is dead. They found his body in his apartment. Murdered. Shot.”

I stared, not overdoing it. “For God’s sake. When?”

“I got it on the radio-the eight o’clock news. They found him last night. He was shot in the head, in the back. That’s all it said. It didn’t mention that he worked for me.” He went to a chair, the big one by the window, and sat. “I want to discuss it with you.”

I had put my shoes and clean socks by that chair, intending to sit there to put them on. Going to get them, taking another chair, pulling my pants leg up, and starting a sock on, I said, “If they don’t already know he worked for you they soon will, you realize that.”

“Certainly I realize it. They may phone, or come, any minute. That’s what I want to discuss.”

I picked up the other sock. “All right, discuss. Shoot.”