7

 

 

The Jarvis Greater-Love-Hath-No-Man Foundation received the income that supported its worthy and sizable contributions from the estate of the late Harley P. Jarvis, who had founded his fortune in the deep jungles of equatorial Africa. At the time he was piling up the stuff, Mr. Jarvis certainly had no intention of being charitable in its distribution; in the hinterland he was known far and wide as a man who was not even generous with praise, let alone money.

And then, one day, a native bearer sprang between Harley and a charging rogue elephant, earning himself a blow from the trunk that reduced him to a pulp. The incident particularly impressed Mr. Jarvis because but moments before he had found it necessary to chastise the bearer severely; yet the man did not hesitate to insert his body between the irate elephant and his master. This exhibition of unselfishness so affected Mr. Jarvis that in his will he set aside a major portion of his wealth for the purpose of establishing a foundation dedicated to paying large awards to future self-sacrificing individuals. In addition to this praiseworthy cause, the foundation also contributed heavily to the Anti-Violence Committee, the Atoms Without Fallout Group, and Peace Lovers, Incorporated (a transplanted American organization).

It would be logical to assume, therefore, that the central offices of such a philanthropic organization would reflect this sense of amity and brotherhood, but the assumption would be wrong. Mr. Carruthers, sitting quietly before the large and forceful woman facing him, was finding this out.

“Bosler has absolutely no right to be secretary,” Mrs. Whimple was insisting with considerable heat. “Leaving aside the fact that she’s the most hated woman in the place, and with good cause, there’s still the fact that after all it was I who did all the initial work, and Mr. Jarvis himself promised me, just before he passed on, that I should not suffer for my devotion.” She nodded impressively. “Those were his exact words, that I should not suffer for my devotion.” She fixed her eye on Mr. Carruthers, defying him to disprove the accuracy of this statement. Carruthers merely sighed.

“I believe you, Mrs. Whimple. Now, leaving that to one side for a moment—”

“Leaving that to one side?” Mrs. Whimple shook her head at him. “But that’s the whole thing—or most of the whole thing. Bosler has no right to be secretary! She didn’t even come into the organization until the groundwork had all been laid!”

Mr. Carruthers shook his head wearily. His presentiment was working overtime, and he wished, somehow, that Mrs. Whimple had come from the colonies and had been a confirmed drunk. But they had screened the letter most carefully, and it had certainly seemed to be the safest of all. At the back of his mind he could not help but wonder what the Yard’s IBM would say if faced with the inner turmoil of the J. G. L. H. N. M. Foundation.

“Mrs. Whimple,” he said slowly, “bear with me. Normally, our group prefers to divorce itself from the motives of our clients, but in this case I’m afraid we must make an exception and question them. You see, in view of the publicity which accrues to the winner of your annual award, we must be extremely careful, for we differ from most organizations in that we eschew publicity as much as possible. Forgive the question, but I cannot help but wonder if the rivalry between you and Mrs. Bosler might not, in truth, have a financial basis. Are you both, by chance, candidates for this year’s award?”

Mrs. Whimple was honestly shocked.

“My dear sir!” she exclaimed. “In the first place, nobody knows who the candidates are until the award is granted. In the second place, no employee or member of his family can be a candidate; that is clearly explained when one starts here. Both of these points are explicitly stated in the Principles; the awards are determined solely by Lord Hough and the other members of the committee.” Her eyes pleaded with him for understanding. “Believe me when I tell you there is nothing selfish in my desire to replace Mrs. Bosler. I simply feel it is my just due. Mr. Jarvis himself, just prior to passing away, said—”

“Yes, yes,” Carruthers agreed hastily. He rubbed his hands together in desperation, searching for some excuse to refuse the case. After all, he could scarcely return to his friends and tell them he had tossed away a thousand quid just because the woman had eyes like rancid clams. Then, at last, he shook his head sadly.

“Still, it seems a bit high just to take over the secretaryship.”

“What seems a bit high?” Mrs. Whimple asked suspiciously.

“Our fee,” Mr. Carruthers said apologetically. “It’s a thousand pounds, you know, plus any additional expenses involved.”

But Mrs. Whimple accepted the figure with perfect aplomb. “It may be a bit high,” she admitted, “but really not too bad. You see,” she added, leaning forward and, of all things, blushing, “there really is a bit more to it than the secretaryship. You see, both Mrs. Bosler and I are widows, and Lord Hough—well, his Lordship is a widower. And the secretary comes in contact with…” She started to simper, but thought better of it.

Mr. Carruthers had but one last hope of escape. “The fee,” he said almost hopefully, “has to be paid in advance, you know. Now, as a matter of fact.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Whimple agreeably. Her confession seemed to have done her good; with her red cheeks and the hint of her simper still fresh on her lips, she looked far different from the shrewish woman Carruthers had first encountered. Carruthers suspected, quite correctly, it was due to the thought that her rival would soon be eliminated.

She reached into her purse, extracted a thick packet of notes, counted off a portion and shoved it across the desk to him; the balance was returned to her bag. “Actually,” she confessed in rather a shy manner, “I had thought it would be much more.”

Mr. Carruthers counted the money and placed it in his pocket. Well, he thought, mentally shuddering, here we go.

“Now,” said Mrs. Whimple in a businesslike tone, returning chameleon fashion to her former, and much less attractive, self. “Just what is it you need to know from me?”

“Well,” Mr. Carruthers began, “her habits, information regarding the routine of the office, its accessibility, the presence of third parties. Things of that nature.”

“Oh, that!” said Mrs. Whimple almost contemptuously. “Oh, I’ve prepared all that!” And, reaching once again into her voluminous purse, she withdrew a packet of papers. “Now,” she said, spreading her wares out before her, “here are pictures of Bosler; you’ll note I’ve furnished one full-face and one profile. And here are the architect’s plans of the building. Bosler’s office is here, on the fifth floor. And a brief dossier of most of the people in the building.” She paused and reached into her purse again. “Oh, yes—and these are the keys to the building and to the office itself. Not that I think you’ll need them.”

She looked up to interpret an odd look on Mr. Carruthers’ face.

“Well!” she said a bit archly. “You needn’t look so surprised. I may only be a subsecretary, it’s true, but we are an organization, you know.”

“And that’s it,” Mr. Carruthers finished glumly, and leaned over to take up his glass of ale. There was a moment’s silence.

“But it’s really too good to be true!” Briggs declared, wriggling in delight. “Keys, plan of the building, everyone’s movements detailed according to time and place, and our lovely victim alone in her office! My heavens, we were certainly right in selecting this one!”

“And the building empty after seven,” Simpson added, almost in awe. “And her with the habit of working late and alone!” He shook his head at their fortune.

“And Lord Hough, even if he had any amorous ideas involving his secretary, away for a protracted visit to the Continent,” Briggs continued happily, and then paused to stare at Carruthers’ long face. “Now what, for heaven’s sake? What possible fault can you find with this one?”

“I don’t know,” Carruthers confessed miserably.

Simpson suddenly set aside his glass. “Did you have any Scottish grandparents?” he asked. “On either your mother’s or your father’s side?”

Carruthers shook his head. “Hull,” he said simply.

“Any great-grandparents from Scotland?” Briggs asked, and added to be extra sure, “or from Wales?”

“Hull, as far as I know,” Carruthers said, thinking back. “Hull, for four generations at least.”

Simpson relaxed. “Then it’s only a bit of indigestion. A touch of liver, as I suspected. Probably the result of too much brandy and champagne.” He lifted his ale mug in a brave salute. “Here’s to too much brandy and champagne!”

Carruthers smiled. It certainly did seem to be the easiest case they had ever tackled, and for a moment his fears abated. “You may be right,” he said, although despite himself doubt crept into his voice. “You probably are. At least I hope so.” He forced his presentiment into the background and attempted to speak with his old authority. “However, we must still take every precaution to see that all goes well.”

He reached over and drew the papers closer. “First of all, who is to get the assignment?”

“Why, me, of course,” said Briggs, setting down his ale mug in surprise. “It’s my turn.”

Carruthers shook his head decisively. “This is not the time to consider turns. This time we must select a method that fits the person, and the person who fits the method.”

“Bosh!” Briggs said witheringly. “Pure bosh! This is the time, it strikes me, when we could send a nine-year-old up there with a blunt instrument and have him get clean away with it!”

“Tim’s right, you know,” Simpson said. “All alone in an empty office—what problem is there? You could drown her in the water cooler, strangle her with the wrapping twine, or simply beat her to death with a sheaf of income-tax forms.”

But Carruthers was adamant.

“When you two get around to considering this case seriously,” he said coolly, “you’ll see it isn’t all that simple. For example, it is most essential that this one appear to be an accident. Suicide in this case is out; you have both read Mrs. Bosler’s dossier—there is no reason for her to kill herself. So it must be an accident, and an accident that is foolproof. Completely foolproof!”

His stern eye held them in attendance. “For look! An accident that later turned out merely to be an unsolved murder would be a disaster; the greatest possible disaster. Why? Because it would be certain to confirm the Yard’s faith in the IBM computer. And if they found one accident-cum-murder, they would start looking for the other nine murders the machine claims they are short!”

Respectful silence followed this speech. Briggs cleared his throat. “What’s your idea?” he asked in a much more subdued tone of voice.

Carruthers leaned forward. “As I see it, the thing must be arranged as the type of accident that could happen to anyone working alone in an empty office building at night. And particularly anyone working alone on an upper floor. And for the plan I have in mind, I’m afraid only Clifford has the physical characteristics to bring it off.”

“What’s he supposed to do?” Briggs asked with a slight return of his old ebullience. “Charm her to death?”

“Partly.” Carruthers nodded his head. “At least, may I say he is not to frighten her to death. But it is not for his personal attractiveness that I believe it necessary to employ Cliff. Were it only for this, I should undertake the assignment myself. No; for my plan we shall require his extraordinary height.” And, holding them with his Ancient Mariner’s eye, he began outlining his scheme to his two friends.

When he had finished, the others looked at him with a respect that bordered on awe.

“Beautiful,” said Briggs reverently.

“Excellent!” said Simpson.

“I’m glad you gentlemen are in accord,” Carruthers said modestly, although his pleasure at the accolade did nothing to remove his still present fears. “There is one small problem, however. That is the porter. You will note that according to the information furnished us by the uncharming Mrs. Whimple, he is on duty in the lobby until ten in the evening, and by this time Mrs. Bosler is normally long gone.”

“His dossier says he likes his little nip,” said Simpson, trying to contribute. “Between seven and eight he may well buzz off for a quick one at the local.”

“Or he may not,” Carruthers observed dryly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Think! We can scarcely plan a murder and depend upon a potential witness to be absent from his normal duties by sheer accident. We must do better than that!”

“I have an idea,” Briggs said slowly. “I used it in The Grotesque Skull some years ago. At least the critics liked it,” he added modestly, and then outlined the stratagem. Carruthers, after considering it from all angles, nodded in satisfaction.

“That should do it.” He considered some more, drumming on his chair arm, and then nodded once again. “Yes, that should do it nicely. All right, gentlemen, if we are agreed let us get on with it.” He swung his head about. “Tonight is satisfactory with you?” Simpson nodded. The white head swiveled in the other direction. “And you’ll arrange the package for Cliff to take along? And the necessary tools?” Briggs also nodded.

Carruthers came to his feet, raising his ale mug. “Then, gentlemen, to the finish of my fears; to the end of my forebodings. To success!” They touched glasses and drank deeply. But, for all his bravado, the drink nearly stuck in Carruthers’ throat.

The Grafton Building, home of the J. G. L. H. N. M. Foundation, as well as several of the other organizations which existed on its beneficence, was located on Clayton Street off Shaftsbury Avenue. It formed a standard chunk in the solid phalanx of six-floored edifices of weathered brick and dusty windows that lined the thoroughfare, remarkable in no way from its neighbors.

At seven that evening the Grafton Building, which had absorbed its quota of employees by slow osmosis that morning, was now busily pumping them out, and Mr. Simpson, facing the full force of this flood, was compelled to put his head down and battle to get into the lobby. The one self-service elevator in the corner was doing a land-office business, and Mr. Simpson therefore pressed himself against a wall and waited until the herd of chattering typists and famished clerks had thinned out a bit.

The timing at this point was vital, for while he did not wish to delay his program until all movement had ceased, still it was essential to the master plan that he find one of the upper floors unoccupied when he finally made his ascent. Judging the time appropriate at last, he slipped by the final outgoing passenger of an emptying lift load and, entering, pressed the button for the sixth floor. Since he was going up he found himself alone, and passed his time by examining the details of the cab. True, Mrs. Whimple had furnished quite exact information on this as well as the other marvels of modern engineering employed in the Grafton Building, but Mr. Simpson was an independent who liked to verify facts for himself.

Arriving at the sixth floor, he was pleased to find (as Mrs. Whimple had so accurately predicted) that the inhabitants of this level were indeed the quickest off the mark at quitting time. He faced an empty areaway and a series of huge doors whose frozen look clearly indicated that they had been locked for the night. With no hesitation he walked to the small push button marked “Porter” which was imbedded in the wall, and pressed it firmly. He then walked nonchalantly to the stairwell in one corner of the area and, humming softly to himself, trotted quickly down them.

As he had expected, the lobby was vacant when he arrived, and he took the opportunity to pass by the cubbyhole the porter used as an office. Pleased, but not surprised, to find it empty, he leaned over the small counter and gently laid a small package on top of the mail desk. A small grate was burning cheerfully in one corner, for the evening was turning chilly, and for an instant Simpson was tempted to decant the pile of other mail into this avid throat. Second thought, however, indicated that finding the package alone would be too suspicious, and he therefore forbore from any foolish act. Besides, the whisper of humming cables advised that the porter was returning, so, with a last fond look at his packaged gift to the porter, he headed for the door.

His initial tasks had been completed, and he therefore prepared to spend the next forty-five minutes having tea at the nearest Corner House.

While Mr. Simpson had been pleased to find the sixth floor unencumbered of people, the same could not be said of Arthur Corby, porter. As he came off the lift in answer to the mysterious buzz and discovered the empty hall and the battery of locked doors, he shook his head in disgust. From force of habit he examined the bell itself with suspicion, as if it might have rung itself, but he knew better. Pranksters! he thought sourly. Young flibbertigibbets! And you to become the future mothers of England! With a loud sniff to cover his thoughts, he got back into the lift and returned to the first floor.

He swung back the barrier of his tiny domain and seated himself wearily at the mail desk before the coal grate, prepared to dutifully stamp the multitude of correspondence that seemed to him to be the major reason for the building’s existence. And there on top of the precarious pile of envelopes stood a battered package which some fool had wrapped so inexpertly that the contents were nearly visible.

He shook his head in irritation; it would have to be rewrapped and he didn’t even know if there was enough brown paper about for the job. He next looked at the address to see if the careless sender might be identified, but to his surprise neither return name nor office number was attached. Even worse, the address of the receiver appeared to have been soaked in water and was completely illegible.

Well! thought Porter Corby. They get more careless every day! I suppose I’ll have to open it and see if at least they had the sense to include a note. That might give me a clue.

Opening it presented no problem; the package was practically open already. He bent back the torn cardboard and noted, a bit enviously, that someone was in line to receive a pint bottle of one of the better whiskeys. It was a brand he had tasted but once, and that time at a posh wedding, but it was one whose taste he had never forgotten. With a sigh at the good fortune which always seemed to attend others but never himself, he withdrew the note wrapped about the bottle and read it. His eyes opened, for the missive, written by typewriter on mauve notepaper, had the following to say:

 

Dear Chickie:

Here’s a bottle of the boss’s best; what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. In any event, he’s got so much he’ll never even miss it. At least he never did before.

Hope this manages to get to you—I know you’re off on a long trip, so this is by way of being a bon voyage present. But even if it doesn’t get to you, it’s small loss. There’s plenty more where this comes from.

Tickey-boo.

Pinky

 

Mr. Arthur Corby’s first reaction was shocked horror at the larceny implied in the contents of the note. Then his brow furrowed as he placed himself in the picture. Here he was in possession of a pint of the best, stolen by one unknown and to be handed over to another unknown, and no means whatsoever to identify either. And, further, would he not be compounding a felony if he attempted to identify them for the purpose of making delivery? Returning it being impossible, the proper thing, of course, would be to turn it in to the Dead Mail Office, but the thought of having the bottle disappear into either the storage bins or the stomachs of the Postal Department did not strike him as the proper solution.

Mr. Corby pondered further. After all, he had worked at the Grafton Building for many years, and he felt a kinship with its occupants. True, one of them appeared to be a crook, but what were friends for if not to help in crucial moments? And how better could he help than by destroying the evidence of the theft? Pleased with this solution, Mr. Corby’s brow cleared. He stripped the balance of the wrapping material and burned it in the grate together with the incriminating note. He then uncorked the evidence and, tilting it to his lips, took the first step in destroying it.

The heavy body of the whiskey was as he remembered; the fine flavor held the same rewarding smokiness of his memories. If there was anything different about it at all, it could only have been the sudden sleepiness which it induced. In order to properly ponder this new quality, he laid his head upon the desk and quickly faded into oblivion.

Mr. Clifford Simpson, replete with two cups of strong tea and a variety of small sandwiches and sugared buns, came strolling back to the Grafton Building. Light streamed from a window high on the fifth floor, and he nodded in satisfaction. So far, so good. It only remained to see if the porter had followed his natural bent in order to get on with the job.

He suffered a momentary qualm as he entered the building lobby, for sounds seemed to come from the porter’s recess, but as he advanced farther into the gloom he readily identified them. Mr. Corby suffered from a deviated septum and, when sleeping, snored. Mr. Simpson viewed the vibrating visage for some moments with almost proprietary interest, but then felt called upon for a solution. Various positions of the head being unproductive, he ended by covering Mr. Corby’s head with a towel and closing the door of the cubbyhole firmly behind him as he left. A moment’s attentiveness in the empty lobby convinced him that the acoustical danger had been met, and he therefore proceeded with their plan.

Entering the small lift, he reached up and quickly unscrewed the bulb. This he placed in the pocket of his topcoat, replacing it in its socket with one which was burned out, and which had attained this electrical euthanasia through quite natural causes. Preferring to continue his labors in a less hazardous location than the ground floor, he fumbled in the darkness for the buttons that controlled the mechanism and, selecting the uppermost, pushed on it briskly.

He rose silently through the heart of the building. When a slight shudder advised him of his arrival, he pushed back the door. Here in the protected enclosure of the familiar sixth-floor areaway he felt safe in lighting his small flashlight, and he found, as he had known, that there was no crack through which a wandering beam could betray his presence to the outside world. They really built doors in those days, he thought approvingly, and began the most essential part of the operation.

The manufacturers of the Arvo Self-Operated Lifts, faced with the problem of automatizing their brainchild, had connected to each car a series of fingers which had to contact the proper switch on any floor before the doors could be manually slid open. These fingers, while extending a scant inch beyond the frame of the enclosure, had greater body within the small electrical switch box from which they protruded, and this small box Mr. Simpson now proceeded to dismantle. With the cover removed, this affair had a slightly bewildering complexity, for, in addition to harboring the door controls, it provided the maze of wiring necessary to call the cab to any specified floor. Mr. Simpson, however, had not spent the afternoon in the library studying the workings of Arvo Lifts for nothing. With a competence born of sure knowledge, he made two simple changes in the contacts and quickly screwed the cover back in place. Then, standing outside the cab, he reached in, pressed the first-floor button, and, withdrawing his hand, slid the doors shut. He listened to the hoodwinked mechanism descend, and then followed the puddle of light cast by his flashlight to the stairway in the corner and slowly descended to the fifth floor.

The barest halo of light illuminated one door, but he paid it no heed and continued with his schedule. His first move was to check the effectiveness of his previous efforts, and to this end he tugged gently on the doors of the lift shaft. Faithful to the deceived intelligence stored in the cab below, they responded by sliding open. A faintly stale breeze wafted up from the depths below. Mr. Simpson stood well back from the yawning abyss at his feet and with outstretched arms coaxed the doors back into closed position. Once they had clicked with what appeared to be an authentic latching sound, he nodded in a satisfied manner and went on to the last item on the program.

His flashlight beam climbed the stuccoed wall and came to rest on the arrow indicator above the lift door. This, not being in rapport with the door circuits, still stubbornly pointed to One. By reaching up, his arm extended by the length of his screwdriver, Mr. Simpson was able to free the locking screw and shift the light bronze arm about. When it pointed to Five, he tightened it in place and stepped back.

As far as he could discern, all preliminary steps had now been taken; the stage was set. It was now time to ring the curtain up on the final act. Replacing his tools in his cavernous pockets, he dusted off his fingers and approached the door from which light seeped. Without hesitation he beat a light tattoo upon the panel.

There was a hesitation in the rhythm of the typing within. Then the typing ceased completely, and footsteps could be heard. The door swung back, revealing a hard-faced woman, amply built, dressed in a shade of green that was particularly revolting. Simpson did not need to refer to the portrait in his pocket; there was no doubt but that he faced Mrs. Sarah Bosler. Behind her he could see a forest of bare desks, piles of paper, and rows of typewriters—all the paraphernalia of modern-day philanthropy.

“Yes?” she inquired suspiciously, and flicked on an additional switch on the wall, flooding the areaway with light. For a moment Simpson nearly succumbed to panic, but then he realized that this light, too, would have to be extinguished when the offices were eventually locked up.

“Is this—or, rather, are these—the offices of Peace Lovers, Incorporated?”

She stared at him. “PLINK?”

For a second this musical sound confused him, but then he realized that she was, in the modern manner, only abbreviating the name. He bobbed his head gratefully. “That’s right.”

“No,” she said shortly. “We work with them, of course, but these certainly aren’t their offices.” Unable, or unwilling, to stifle her resentment, she continued. “The Plinks don’t feel that their cause warrants their staying one second after seven, and it’s ages over that now, you know.” She looked up at him, her suspicion returning. “Why didn’t you stop by and ask the porter?”

But Simpson had been prepared for this question.

“I did, you know,” he said gently. “Stopped, that is. I couldn’t ask him, you see, because he wasn’t there.”

She bit her lip viciously. “That Corby! That incompetent! I suppose he’s stepped out for a—for a tea or something. He does, whenever he thinks he can get away with it.” The cold glitter in her eye clearly indicated that if she were in charge Corby would never again step out for anything except his dole payment.

Simpson put on all his charm and smiled at her in quite a friendly fashion. “I understand,” he said pleasantly. “Porters will be porters. Tell me,” he continued, wandering beyond the threshold of the office as if drawn in almost against his will, “what is the tremendous magnetic power of this work that draws a charming person such as yourself into staying so late at your tiring efforts?”

She checked her first rejoinder; after all, her visitor was obviously a gentleman, and well past the age of either flippancy or idle flirtation. For the first time her eyes took in the neat clothing, the warm sincerity of the friendly brown eyes, the huge lankiness of the man before her. Really not too different from Lord Hough, she found herself thinking; other, of course, than their general appearance.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, trying hard not to sound girlish. “One feels that one has a mission, you know.”

“But a mission until all hours of the night?” he insisted, smiling down at her. “Certainly there should be a limit to the time such a charming person expends, even on the most vital of missions.” Where do I get it from? he wondered, even as he spoke. From what dried-up wells of almost-forgotten authorship do such sweet streams of pure unadulterated blarney flow? But he realized that the tactic had been a correct one, for the woman before him actually simpered.

“Well, the fact is,” she began coyly, and referred to the tiny wristwatch almost lost in the folds of her wrist, “it’s nearly time for me to leave.” He was suddenly convinced that had he made a move to leave at that moment, his arm would have been instantly grasped.

“Fine!” He countered the querying eyebrows by adding, “At this late hour, the very least a gentleman can do is to escort a lovely lady to her transportation. Unless you might care to stop for a … tea, or something?”

She giggled and then froze at her own impetuousness. “I’ll only be a sec,” she said, and tore back into the depths of the office. Covers were flung on typewriters and documents thrust hastily into drawers. Without a pause for breath she came around the pylon turn of the water cooler, catching up her hat and coat on the run.

“There!” she said, trying to control her panting. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Simpson said politely, and stood aside from the door as her fingers fumbled with the switches within. The Stygian darkness that suddenly descended lasted but a fraction of a second; her fingers snatched at the switches once more, and light returned.

“I’m so sorry,” she said contritely. “Usually when I work late, I call the lift up to this floor and lock the offices by the light from the cab.” She tilted her head coyly in the direction of the lift. “Would you mind?”

“A pleasure,” said Simpson with Old-World courtesy, and walked over to press his finger firmly against the wall within an inch of the button. He sincerely hoped she would not notice the indicator pointing to Five. He leaned forward in a listening attitude and nodded solemnly.

“It’s coming.” His eyes came up. “If you’d like to lock up, I have a cigar lighter.”

She hesitated, but the scratch of the lighter and the flare of fire seemed to call for decision, so she clicked off the lights and, pulling the heavy door closed, swung her key in the lock. And then turned to face a smiling Simpson.

“It’s finally arrived,” he said, and supported his claim by holding his long arm aloft. His lighter flickered inches from the indicator pointing to Five. “But,” he added in a surprised tone of voice, “it appears that the cab light isn’t functioning.”

“That Corby!” she spat.

“Porters!” he murmured, and reached for the elevator doors. By some coincidence his lighter was suddenly extinguished even as his fingers found the handle. “Lighters!” he said humorously in her ear, and pulled the doors back.

“After you, madame,” he said in such a gallant voice that it would have been unthinkable to refuse the urging of that warm tone. Happy to be able to respond to such pleasant encouragement, she smiled and stepped forward….

“So you see,” Briggs said reasonably, “there really wasn’t anything to worry about after all.” He poured brandy all around and slid two glasses toward his companions. “Your plan worked perfectly, and so I say: Success!” He began to lift his glass and then noticed that Carruthers was not joining them. “Here, now!” said Briggs, slightly aggrieved. “Aren’t you even going to drink to that?”

“Cliff,” said Carruthers, disregarding the smaller man completely, “are you certain you put the indicator pointer back in place?”

“Positive,” replied Simpson, looking at Carruthers in surprise.

“And rewired the control panel? Properly?”

“Well, I put it back the way I found it. I don’t swear it was all right in the first place.” He shook his head. “Had to do it all on the first floor, too, because I didn’t want to move the cab with her up on top. And the ceiling all sagged, too—you have no idea what her twelve stone did to that flimsy roof!”

Carruthers bit his lip in silence. “And the burned-out bulb? You left that, of course?”

“Of course. It’s what we had planned on, wasn’t it?” He looked at Carruthers in faint alarm. “Just exactly what is bothering you, Billy?”

But Carruthers disregarded the question and continued with his cross-examination. “And the porter? How did you leave him?”

“In peace, although I’m afraid he’ll have a bit of a head when he wakes up. I detoweled him, opened the door to his room, and bid his sleeping figure fond adieu. In fact,” Simpson added, recalling, “I even removed temptation from his path, because I poured the rest of the bottle down the W.C. and flushed it before returning the empty bottle to his hand.” He stared at Carruthers curiously. “Why? Did I do something wrong? Did I forget anything?”

Carruthers sighed and shook his head.

“If you did,” he said despondently, “I fail to see what it was. The schedule was followed exactly. Everything that we planned happened, and nothing happened that we did not plan.”

“So? Is that bad?”

Carruthers looked at them with a face so torn with misery that for a moment they thought he might be ill. “In that case,” he asked in a haunted voice, “why is my premonition as strong as ever? Why do I feel as fearful now as I did before the job? What went wrong that we haven’t as yet foreseen?”

Briggs snorted angrily. “Rubbish! Nothing went wrong! What you need is a drink!”

“Really, Billy,” Simpson said in irritation. “Aren’t you overdoing it a bit? Relax, for God’s sake! Have that drink!”

“Well, all right,” Carruthers said hopelessly, and took up his glass. “I’ll have that drink, and I’ll toast success, but take my word for it—this one was a mistake. I feel it in my bones.”

“Drink up!” Briggs snapped. “You’re beginning to get the wind up me!”

Carruthers lifted his glass in a subdued manner. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, and then, with one heave of his leonine head, flung the brandy down his throat. “All right,” he said quietly. “It was fine. It was perfect. We have nothing to worry about. Satisfactory?” He poured his glass full again and lifted it in a toast.

“To success,” he said, and shook his head dolefully.