Into the Night

What a way to earn a living, Madeline thought deprecatingly. And he may even have a wife and child at home. Why shouldn’t he have, just as well as everyone else?

But for every job there is in the world, no matter how unrewarding, there’s always someone there to fill it. Or else the world couldn’t go on.

Standing there, she decided she’d call him at noon, just before he took his lunch break.

Just as the decision crystallized in her mind, there was a knock at the door. She sighed, crossed the room, and opened the door.

It was the maid. They exchanged good-mornings, and then the maid said, “Isn’t it a lovely day!”

“It certainly is,” Madeline agreed. And then the thought of his death came back again. Not that it had ever been very far away. He’s having nice weather to die in, she reflected.

“Aren’t you going out and get some of that beautiful sunshine?” the maid wanted to know.

“I’m going out later on,” Madeline told her. “I’m going out this afternoon.” She wondered what the maid would think or say if she were to tell her, I’m going out to kill a man. Probably grin ephemerally as at a joke you don’t understand and go right on with her work.

“You don’t have to bother with that,” Madeline said as the maid picked up the coffee cup to rinse it out.

“It’s no trouble, let me do it,” the maid said accommodatingly. “I like to leave your place spic and span.” Madeline was a good tipper.

And that was the last exchange of the day between them.

The morning had gone. The morning of Herrick’s last day on earth.

She looked at her wristwatch. Three and a half to twelve. She went into the bedroom once more and sat down on the bed again, now neatly made up.

The death call.

She waited two and a half minutes. Then she picked up the phone and gave the apartment hotel operator his business number. She was as calm as though she were asking for a time check or valet service.

She gave his name to a girl. Then she heard his voice. Every word it said meant it had used up one word more and had that many fewer left to use before it grew silent forever. Still, isn’t that true of all of us? she thought.

“This is Madeline,” she said, and smiled a little at him in greeting though he couldn’t see her.

“Funny, I was thinking of you only a little while ago,” he said.

“I was thinking of you too,” she admitted.

“Do you believe in mental telepathy?”

“It’s impossible not to,” she said soberly, “when something comes up like what we’re saying right now.”

“Come down and have lunch with me,” he invited. “The whole town is playing hooky from school. A day as fine as this isn’t for working in, it’s for idling in.”

“No,” she said quickly, “I can’t. I have some things I want to do this afternoon.”

“Have lunch with me first, and then you can do them later,” he suggested.

“No,” she said, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

“What?” he said eagerly.

“I’ll have dinner with you tonight, if you’re free.”

Eagerness had become enthusiasm. “Fine,” he said heartily. “That’ll be just fine. Where’ll we make it and where’ll I meet you?”

“Have you got facilities over in your place?” she said at a sudden tangent.

“Facilities?”

“Facilities for making a meal.”

“Oh, yes, sure. Why, would you rather eat up in my place?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that better than a restaurant. I’m just in the mood for that. The only obstacle is—”

“What?” he said.

“I can’t cook worth a nickel.”

He laughed in relief. “I can,” he said. “Want me to, rather than have it sent in?”

“By all means,” she said gaily. “That’s what I’m fishing for, a home-cooked meal for once in my life.”

“You’ve got it,” he said. “Now, what would you like? Name your menu. I’ll phone in the order, and it’ll be all delivered and ready to go to work on by the time you arrive.”

“Well,” she said, looking thoughtfully along the wall. “I’m not a fancy eater, and I’m not a large one. I like plain fare.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ve got paper and pencil here. Let’s start at the beginning. What do you want for a before-dinner drink?”

“Sherry,” she said decidedly. “Always and only. I don’t go for mixed drinks. In that, I’m with the Europeans.”

“Brand?”

“Domecq. La Ina, if you have it. It’s one of the driest in the world.”

“I do have it,” he said. “Like it myself. Next?”

“No soup, no nothin’. Just a one-course meal. I know most men are fond of red meat, and I am myself, in moderation. How about a steak?”

“You’re a girl after my own heart.”

“But not one of these oversized sirloins,” she said quickly. “Why don’t you get us each a little individual club steak? They’re small and tender.”

“I know a great sauce,” he enthused.

“Put mushrooms into it.”

“They go with it. Mushrooms and sauterne.”

“No trimmings, no salad.”

“Dessert?”

“No dessert. I hate sweet desserts. They’re for children.”

“I do too.”

“Or, I’ll tell you what. Roquefort on thin saltine crackers, and then black coffee laced with cognac. And that’s it.”

“You’ve got good sense in food,” he complimented her. “And good taste in it.”

“Thank you,” she said quite matter-of-factly. Then she asked him, “What time shall I drop by?”