"Yes?"
"At eight tomorrow evening, I am expecting a caller. He will be with me ten to twenty minutes. When he leaves, I want him followed. I want to know who he is and where he lives." I gave Shippler a description of Henry. "Phone me as soon as you find out."
I went to the bank and withdrew five thousand dollars.
At seven the next evening Diana left to see a motion picture. Or at least so she informed me. I would find out about that later.
Henry arrived punctually at eight o'clock and I took him into my study.
He took a chair. "He was a clerk with an importing concern."
"Who was?" I asked.
"Jack the Ripper. A timid-looking man — in his early forties, I'd estimate. He was apparently a bachelor and he lived with his mother."
I smiled. "How interesting. What was his name?"
"I haven't gotten that yet. You see people don't go about with signs hanging from their necks and it can be difficult to find out who they actually are."
He could easily have invented some name for this Jack the Ripper, but this was really more clever — and logical.
Henry said, "Do you have the five thousand dollars?"
"Yes." I got the package and handed it to him.
He rose. "Tonight I think I'll go back to Custer's massacre. I find history fascinating."
I had only one consolation. When the time came to kill him, I would enjoy every moment of it.
When he was gone, I sat beside the phone and waited impatiently. At nine-thirty it rang and I quickly lifted the receiver.
"This is Shippler."
"Well, where does he live?"
Shippler's voice was apologetic. "I'm afraid my man lost him."
"What?"
"He transferred from bus to bus and finally disappeared. I think he suspected he was being followed."
"You blundering idiot!" I roared.
"Really, Mr. Reeves," Shippler said stiffly. "It is my man who is the blundering idiot."
I hung up and poured myself some bourbon. This time Henry had eluded me, but there would be other times. He would be back. Blackmailers are never satisfied.
I became aware of the time and realized that I still had work to do that night. I got into my coat and hat and went downstairs to the apartment garage.
Charles Atwood's home was a large one embedded in several acres of wooded property. It was a situation I fancied, since it offered the maximum of concealment.
The dwelling was dark, except for lights on the third floor where I imagined the servants were quartered.
Atwood's three car garage was detached from the house. I took a stand behind a clump of trees near it and waited.
At eleven-fifteen a car swung into the driveway and made its way to the garage. It stopped momentarily while the automatic doors rose, and then it disappeared into the garage.
Thirty seconds later, a side door opened and a tall man stepped into the moonlight. He began walking toward the house.
I had my revolver and silencer ready and I waited until he came within fifteen feet of me before I left my concealment.
Atwood stopped with an exclamation of startled surprise as he saw me.
I pulled the trigger and Atwood dropped to the ground without a sound. I made certain that he was dead — I do not like to leave things half done — and then made my way back through the woods and to the street where I had parked my car.
The assignment had been entirely successful and, for the first time in thirty-six hours, I felt a certain peace with the world.
I returned to my apartment a little before midnight and I was relaxing when the phone shrilled.
It was Henry. "I see that you killed someone else tonight," he announced pleasantly.
My hands were moist.
"When I arrived home," Henry said, "I got into my time machine and turned it back to the time when I left your apartment. I wanted to see if you had attempted to follow me. I have to be cautious, you know. After all, I am dealing with a murderer."
I said nothing.
"You didn't follow me, but you did leave your apartment and I followed in my machine as a matter of curiosity."
That infernal time machine! Was it possible?
"I'm just wondering," Henry said. "Was that the man you were supposed to kill — the one you killed?"
What was he getting at?
"Because there were two men in the car," Henry said.
I spoke involuntarily. "Two?"
"Yes. You shot the first man as he came out of the garage. The second man left it about forty-five seconds later."
I closed my eyes. "Did he see me?"
"No. You were gone by that time. He just bent over the man you'd shot and called, 'Fred! Fred!'"
I was definitely perspiring. "Henry, I'd like to see you."
"Why?"
"I can't discuss it over the phone. But I've got to see you."
His voice was dubious. "I don't know."
"It means money. A lot of money."
He thought it over. "All right," he said finally. "Tomorrow? Around eight?"
I couldn't wait that long. "No. Right now. As soon as you can get here."
Henry required more seconds to think. "No tricks now, Mr. Reeves," he said. "I'll be prepared for anything."
"No tricks, Henry. I swear it. Get here as soon as you can."
He arrived forty-five minutes later. "What is it, Mr. Reeves?"
I had been drinking — not to excess, but I simply found that accepting such an idea — and I was on the verge of accepting it — was painful to my intelligence. "Henry, I'd like to buy your machine. If it really works."
"It works." He shook his head. "But I won't sell it."
"One hundred thousand dollars, Henry."
"Out of the question."
"A hundred and fifty thousand."
"It's my invention," Henry said peevishly. "I wouldn't dream of parting with it."
"You could make another, couldn't you?"
"Well… yes." He eyed me suspiciously.
"Henry, do you expect me to mass produce time machines once I get yours? To sell them to others?"
His face indicated that evidently he did.
"Henry," I said patiently. "Having anyone else in the world get hold of that machine is the last thing I want. After all, I am a murderer. I wouldn't welcome other people delving into the past, especially my past — now would I?"
"No," he admitted. "Somebody else might want to turn you over to the police. There are people like that."
"Two hundred thousand dollars, Henry," I said. "My last offer." Actually money was no object to me now. With Henry's machine — if it worked — I could make millions.
A crafty light crept into his eyes. "Two hundred and fifty thousand. Take it or leave it."
"Henry, you drive a hard bargain. But I'll meet your price. However I've got to be satisfied that the machine works. When can I see it?"
"I'll get in touch with you," he said cagily. "Tomorrow, the next day, maybe in a week."
"Why not right now?"
He shook his head. "No. You're very clever, Mr. Reeves. Perhaps you've devised a trap for this moment. I prefer to set the time and terms myself."
I was unable to shake him out of his determination and he left five minutes later.
I rose at seven in the morning and went downstairs to purchase a newspaper. I had indeed killed the wrong man. A Fred Turley. I had never even heard of him before.
Atwood and Turley had returned from the dinner and an evening of cards together and driven into the garage. Turley had gone out of the side door, but Atwood remained behind to lock his car. Then he had seen his briefcase still on the rear seat. After he had recovered it, re-locked the car, and left the garage, he had found Turley dead on the path leading to the house. At first he had thought Turley had suffered a stroke of some kind. When he finally discovered the truth, he had raised an alarm. The police had no clues either to the identity of the murderer or the motive for the killing.