He Won't Need it Now

     Pushing the pedal down, he drove the Buick fast. The Packard vanished from his mirror, and he thought no more about it.

     At the bank there was a slight delay. Duffy had trouble in convincing the watchman that he had arranged to speak to the teller. The watchman was a stolid Irishman, with a big, beefy face, and not much brain.

     Duffy took him through the explanation slowly again.

     “Sure,” the watchman nodded his head, “but this joint's closed see?” He said the last word with obvious triumph.

     Duffy said bleakly, “Listen, punk, get going and tell Anscombe I'm here, or I'll get you fired.”

     The watchman blinked at him, then thinking it wouldn't hurt him to inquire, he grumblingly left Duffy to cool his heels in the street. He came back again, after a delay that infuriated Duffy, and opened the iron-studded door.

     “Come in,” he said shortly. “This is mighty irregular.”

     Duffy stepped in and stood waiting. A flustered clerk came over to him and Duffy nodded at him. “I want that note-book I deposited,” he said shortly.

     “Sure,” the clerk said. “Mr. Anscombe's getting it for you.”

     Anscombe came out of his office at the end of the hall and waved. He walked towards Duffy with a springy step. In his hand was the note-book.

     “This is what you want, isn't it?” he said. “I got it out as soon as the janitor brought me your name. Take it and give me a receipt. I'm doing you a favour. We oughtn't to do business as late as this.”

     Duffy took the note-book, glanced at it, put it in his pocket and scribbled his name on the slip of paper Anscombe held out to him.

     “Much obliged,” he said. “I want this in a hurry, and it's worth something.”

     Anscombe came with him to the door. He seemed in a hurry to get rid of him. Duffy stepped into the street. The air was very close. He cocked his eye at the sky. “Looks like a storm,” he said.

     Anscombe said it did; then he said good night, and shut the door. Duffy grinned a little, found that he was sweating, and blotted his face with his handkerchief. Then he walked over to the Buick and climbed in. He pressed the spring in the panel that held the guns, took one of the automatics out, glanced at the clip and shoved it down the waist of his trousers. He took out the note-book and put it in the panel. Then he pressed the spring and snapped it shut. It would be safe there, he thought.

     The clock on the dashboard stood at seven twenty-five when he pulled up again at Olga's villa. He got out of the car and noticed that the light was still burning in her bedroom.

     He said, “I bet she's fretting over those dresses still.” He walked up the path, feeling the gravel through his thin soles. Then he opened the door with the key she had given him and entered the hall, shutting the door behind him.

     He said, raising his voice, “You dressed yet?” He didn't wait for her reply, but went into the sitting-room to get some cigarettes. He stopped at the doorway, feeling suddenly cold. Then he said, “For God's sake...”

     The room had been torn to pieces in the same way as his apartment had been. He just took one quick glance, then he blundered up the stairs, his legs curiously weak. At the top of the stairs he hesitated, then he called, “Honey!” The sound of his voice quite startled him. It was hoarse and quavering.

     “If those lugs have touched her,” he thought. He took a step forward, then stopped again. “Honey,” he shouted. “You there?”

     The silence in the house mocked him. He put his hand or the gun butt and pulled the gun out. Then he began to slide forward silently, his feet making no sound on the carpet. He reached the bedroom door and put his hand on the knob. Then he gently turned the handle, holding the gun waist-high. He walked in.

     Olga was lying on the floor, with a knife in her left breast. The knife had been driven in so hard that it had sealed the wound. She hadn't bled at all. The wrap she had put on just before Duffy had left had been torn from her, and was lying at the other end of the room, where it had been thrown. Her large eyes were open and her lips were parted, showing a little of her small white teeth. She didn't look scared, just surprised.

     Duffy stood looking at her for a long time. The only sound in the room was the sharp busy ticking of the clock. Duffy didn't have to touch her to know she was dead.

     For moment the only thing that Duffy could think of was that she had offered herself to him not an hour ago, and he had refused.

     A little trickle of sweat ran from under his hat, down his nose to his chin. He still stood looking at Olga. The telephone began to ring downstairs insistently. Duffy raised his head and listened. Then he turned and went down into the sitting-room. He pulled the telephone to him and said, “Yes?”

     The dry, brittle voice of the little guy said, “We're waiting for that list. Zero hour's eleven o'clock. Then we come and get it.”

     Duffy said through his teeth, “Go and —— yourself,” and hung up.