Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

She was in the big lonely building late at night, but she wasn’t alone. There was a killer with her!

* * *

It was four in the morning when Susie, crossing the lobby with a fresh cup of coffee, had a fleeting sense that something was out of place.

She paused and looked around with some trepidation. She had been working, here only a month, and it seemed that whenever something was wrong it turned out to be her fault. But right now, she decided, she was imagining it: the law offices of Wentworth, Mosby & Stant looked as punctiliously elegant as usual. On the wall between the elevators, the stainless steel letters which spelled out the firm’s name gleamed even in the faint light. The dark wood furniture and beige carpeting were fresh from the ministrations of the night cleaning crew. The magazines in the waiting area were neatly stacked, the ash trays polished. The vase on the receptionist’s console awaited the morning delivery of fresh flowers.

Susie shrugged. She supposed that she was only missing the familiar background noises — the low continuous hubbub of voices, buzzing telephones, clattering typewriters, and whirring copying machines. Just now, she could hear only the sigh of the ventilating system.

She crossed the lobby to the huge windows. This was the twentieth floor — the firm occupied this entire floor, as well as the one above — and she looked out on a vista of black towers and distant, empty streets. In the daytime, downtown had a population in the tens of thousands; at this hour, she mused, she was one of a couple of hundred.

She turned and walked back to her office. The long corridor was dim as a tunnel, and the doors were thrown open on empty offices. It amused Susie that she — the lowliest paralegal in the firm — had the place to herself. She felt like kicking off her shoes and capering down the hall, or sneaking into one of the partners’ offices and helping herself to a cigar.

But then she noticed that she was not alone: there was a sliver of light showing beneath the door of Harry Stant, the senior litigating partner. The mere proximity of this imposing figure was enough to puncture Susie’s irreverent mood. Last week he had frostily advised her that she must attain the proper legal gravity: her penchant for playing practical jokes on the mail-room boys and sending facetious memos to the associates was most unsuitable. Adopting a sober expression, she hurried back to her office.

The tiny cubicle was stacked with boxes. They contained a client’s financial records, and she had been ordered to get them organized by next morning. As she lugged yet another box onto her desk, she noticed a memo lying on her in-tray. Dated yesterday, it said that since an unnamed associate had reported his keys lost, the office locks would be changed the next day. New keys would be distributed —

Abruptly Susie realized why she had thought something was wrong as she crossed the lobby. She should not have been able to cross the lobby at all. The heavy security doors between the elevators and the reception console should have been closed and locked. But they had been wide open.

She winced as hot coffee sloshed over her fingers. Her hand was shaking. She put the cup down and stood.

What was she going to do now? Make a mad dash for the elevators? She caught sight of her reflection in the dark window — shoulders hunched, hand to her mouth — and made herself relax. She was being foolish. They’d simply forgotten to close the security doors last evening. She’d never known them to forget, but still—

She would go to Mr. Stant. Yes, that would make her feel better. She hoped he would not think it was another of her pranks; if he did, one look at her face ought to convince him otherwise. She left her office and started down the corridor.

But after a few steps she stopped dead. The light in Stant’s office had gone out.

“He’s not there.”

She gasped and swung round. But the dim corridor was empty.

“Stant’s not there. The night typists are gone. And the computer programmers. And the cleaning crew. There’s nobody here but you and me.”

The voice was hushed, hollow, diffuse. It was coming through speakers in the ceiling. The man was talking to her over the office paging system: he could be anywhere.

Instinctively Susie began to back up, toward the elevators.

“Are you that anxious to meet me? You’re heading in my direction.”

Susie froze.

“Yes, I can see you. Shall I prove it? Your hair is long and either light-brown or blonde. You’re wearing a red turtleneck and dark slacks. Rather Bohemian for a law firm, but you’re pretty enough.”

He broke off, and for a moment there was only the sound of his breathing, seeping through the speakers.

“I want a word with you. Go to a phone.”