Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Her eyes were on the clock again.

Sixteen minutes.

He tossed off his drink straight. He was beginning to feel them. He signalled for another before she had touched her fresh sherry.

“Listen,” he said. “I think that clock’s got you hypnotized.”

“Is my looking at it that noticeable?”

“I guess it is,” he said. “I just noticed, didn’t I?”

She smiled; there was a trace of invitation in it now. “Why don’t you have another drink?”

He hesitated, as if there were something he didn’t understand. Something strange. Something that only a deep seated instinct reached out and touched. Then he gave a what-the-devil shrug and ordered another drink.

“If you’re planning to find work here,” he said, “maybe I could help you. I run a fairly good real estate business. Belong to some clubs. Know quite a few people.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

She smiled. “You hesitated. You are married.”

“Well, I don’t see much of her.”

“Misunderstood husband?”

“No, I just don’t like her. But there are two kids and...” His voice trailed off.

“It makes no difference,” she said. “But aren’t you gambling a lot?”

“You mean, just sitting here, talking to you?”

“Well, you’re a respectable businessman, you say. A family man. Scandal would hurt you very much.”

“My wife knows how I feel about her.”

“Oh, well, that does make things simpler for you, doesn’t it.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Simpler for us,” she said softly.

In the dim light of the bar, she was a gifted artist’s most beautiful creation. Almost too lovely to be real.

His breath quickened. “I think we’re going to understand each other.”

“You’ll never understand me,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

“You shouldn’t try too hard. I warn you.”

“Instead of a warning, I’ll have a drink,” he said.

“You’re old enough to know what you want to do,” she said. “But I’m glad I warned you.”

He smiled expansively. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“How did you know?”

“I know you quite well.”

“How could you?” he laughed. “I only met you minutes ago.”

“No, I met you a long time ago. In many different places. There are a lot of men like you in the world, Larry. Wife, couple of kids, a business — all pretty light stuff when they’re weighed against a thrill.”

“Hey, you need a drink.”

“All right.”

“None of that lecture stuff. How do you like that — we meet the way we did, and you start a lecture.”

“I just want to make sure I really know you.”

“You know enough. I’m a nice guy. I go for you in a big way. That’s all you need to know.”

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll never mention it again.”

“That’s fine,” he said. He paused. One of his words had been thick. He laughed. “Another drink, I need. And you’re beautiful.”

“Am I?”

“Positively.”

“More beautiful than your wife?”

“Make her look like a frump,” he said.

“Beautiful enough to die for?”

“Say now...”

She became cool, remote.

“Look,” he said. “You throw a question like that at me...”

“Yes, Larry?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, I guess a guy could say you’re that beautiful.”

She leaned back in the booth, began laughing softly.

His eyes sobered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cut that out,” he said.

“Why?”

“It gives me the willies. It’s— You’re like two people, Jeannine. One of them little and delicate and innocent. The other...”

“Yes, Larry? Tell me.”

“I dunno. Mysterious, kind of. Puts ice in my blood.”

“So you’re afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of anything! Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Yes, why should you be?”

She turned her attention once more to the clock behind the bar.

Seven minutes.

A faint shudder, like a caress of strange pleasure, passed over her.

“Listen,” he said. “I got to know about that clock.”

“It’s only a clock,” she said.

“Not to you. It ain’t to you.”

“I’m waiting, Larry.”

“Yeah, until when?”

“Midnight.”

“What happens then? The coach turn into a pumpkin?”

Her dreamy eyes searched his face. “You’re beginning to get drunk, Larry.”

“So what?”

“Sure you don’t want to go home?”

“Nope. I’m sticking with you. Meantime, I want to know what’s with that clock.”

“It’s telling me something, Larry. Every tick is a whisper. Like soft, dragging footsteps, taking a last walk.”

He was silent a moment. He blinked at her. His eyes cleared somewhat, came into focus.

“Last walk? Let’s not talk morbid, doll.”

“You asked me.”

“Yeah, but this last walk business. Why should the clock remind you of that?”

“It paints a scene for me, Larry. I can see every detail. Wouldn’t it be funny if the clock stopped at midnight?”

“That clock won’t stop, not unless the electricity goes off.”

“I know — it will keep going. On and on. One midnight is just like another to the clock.”

“That’s right — and what’s so different about this one?”

She didn’t answer him. Her eyes were on the clock.

Four minutes.

A pulse was beating in the hollow of her throat. She glanced at him. “Meet me down on the corner, will you?”

“Now why should I—”

“I don’t want to be seen leaving with you. Leave, Larry. Now!”

“Well, okay,” he said rather stiffly.

“I won’t be long,” she said. “You’ll be there?”

His face lost its sudden touch of ill humor. “Sure, but don’t keep me waiting.”