The spring was wound tight, I knew. I pressed the trigger. I must admit that at that moment I felt a certain disgust with our new product. You might say that the brisk snapping of our loudest variety of caps was somewhat anticlimatic, and the built-in siren of which I was so proud sounded merely like a tin whistle. The entire eight caps exploded, however.
Mr. Dermody’s eyes rolled back up into his head and he pitched forward down the steps. I was frozen with horror as I saw his head hit the steps, heard the sickening crack it made. The straw hat rolled down to my feet. Women screamed and men yelled hoarsely. A victim of real panic, I ran for the corner. The car was there, moving slowly, the door open, as George had promised.
I piled in, much too frightened to do anything except gasp for air. George reached over from the back seat and twisted our new product out of my slippery hand. He examined it and said a number of very bad words.
“Bus station ahead,” Artie said.
“Skip it,” George growled, “We’re taking this screwball back to the house.”
George and I dropped off as Artie sped on to dispose of the stolen car. George prodded me roughly in the small of the back with the gun he held as we went up the drive to the side door.
Artigan stood at the foot of the stairs and his eyes widened as I came in, wincing each time George’s gun jabbed me.
“Just what the hell is this?” Artigan demanded.
George handed him the gun. “Ask this guy, boss. This is what he shot Dermody with.”
Artigan examined the weapon with an intensely bewildered expression. I said, using a portion of my planned speech, “You will notice that the caps can be easily inserted by sliding the butt plate down. The spring is of the best quality steel available and guaranteed to—”
“Shut your face,” Artigan said. The hall phone rang. He picked it up. He listened for a few minutes and then roared, “How the hell do I know?” He slammed the phone back on the cradle and rocked from side to side.
“That,” he said, “was our friend from Homicide. Dermody’s dead. Heart attack. They got twenty witnesses some screwball fires at him with a cap gun and he drops dead. He wants to know what he should do next.”
My heart sank. I knew that despite what legal interpretation was made of the matter, I was ethically guilty of murder — murder in the first degree.
“Take this clown in my office and hold a gun on him, George. I’m going to take a chance and phone Nicky.”
We had a long and uncomfortable wait in the office. George hummed softly. The slow minutes crept by. When Artigan came in he looked like a man who might drop any moment from weariness.
He stared at me. “All right. You’re not Jumpy Anderson. You don’t match the description. Just who the hell are you?”
“I am Omar Dudley, Sales Manager of the Idle Hour Novelties Company. I am afraid that your Mr. Anderson was killed in such a way that it was thought that I was killed. At least I experienced the rather extraordinary sensation of reading an account of my own death.”
Artigan stared at me. He smiled, but there was something in that smile which had the same effect as a trickle of ice water down the spine. “I regret, Mr. Dudley, that you have become so well informed on our particular problems. You are a man of honor, I imagine.”
“Of course.”
“That makes it quite impossible for you to be released. Your honor would send you running to the law, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course,” I said.
“We saw no reason last night to keep you out of the Kelly girl’s room. She was the dull razor, I imagine. I suppose you had a nice long chat with her.”
“No,” I said, too quickly and too loudly.
He still wore his smile. I wondered how I had ever managed to see him as a distinguished-looking man.
“I don’t like to be crude, Mr. Dudley. I am going to have to keep you in this room under guard. We’ll have the Kelly girl brought down and guarded here also. You can tell her, if you see fit, that your futures are pretty limited.”
I could not get the dryness out of my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Tonight we’re going to take the two of you on a moonlight boat ride, complete with cinder blocks and wire.”
“Isn’t that a bit... extreme?”
“This is an extreme situation, Mr. Dudley.”
He left and soon Patricia was thrust forcibly into the room. She saw at once that I had been properly identified. George seemed quietly amused. He sat behind the desk with the gun on the blotter in front of him. Patricia and I were seated on straight chairs, some five feet apart, the chairs backed up against the wall some six feet from the desk. George had no objection to our talking with each other. I brought her up to date.
Contrary to what I had been led to believe, the condemned were not given a hearty meal. We were given no meal at all. Oddly enough it was this deliberate oversight which finally broke down the final barrier of disbelief in my mind. As I have mentioned, I am a mild man of even temper. Also, I am logical. Logic was difficult to achieve when I could look over and see the slender line of Patricia’s throat, the stubborn little chin, the impudent nose. However, I managed. Logic said that if we were to die — and Artigan had no purpose in bluffing us — then any risk taken to avoid that dire end was justified. Also, following the same pattern, if Patricia were to be of maximum use to me, she should be informed of her fate-to-be. I told her. She turned as white as paper, then slowly the color came back. Her chin went up and her eyes narrowed. I managed to give her a long and solemn wink, hoping that it would infer to her that I intended to make some effort.
To test George’s reactions I made a sudden movement. Even before I had completed it the ugly muzzle of the gun pointed at a spot between my eyes.
“Careful, baby,” he whispered.
After considerable thought, I asked him if I might get a fresh handkerchief from my suitcase.
“Go ahead. But don’t try anything.”
He watched me carefully and made me lift the suitcase up onto a chair where he could see more clearly. My box of samples was open. I very casually took our new Super-Dribble Glass and set it on the edge of the desk. I palmed the Wiggly without any clear idea of how I would use it. Taking a fresh handkerchief I sat down.
After what seemed a suitable interval, I remarked that I was thirsty. Patricia said that she was thirsty also. George was inclined to ignore us. Patricia began to plead with him. The small bar was off to his left. He opened it, stuck glasses under the tap, then placed them on the edge of the desk. We drank, and I made myself drink noisily, a mannerism that I detested.
Opening the bar exposed the line of bottles. I saw George run his tongue along his lips. At last he reached out and took the glass that had come from my suitcase. As he did so, I slowly pulled my feet back under my chair, preparing to move with all the speed of which I was capable. He poured two fingers of whisky into the Super-Dribble, put in two ice cubes and filled it from the soda syphon.
As I was instrumental in suggesting the design and working with our technicians while they perfected it, I knew the precise angle which would activate the spring in the base.
George tilted the glass to his lips. He took two sips and then the glass reached the proper angle. The whisky and soda was hurled full into his face, forcing itself up his nose and flooding his eyes. As it did so, I lunged for the desk. His hand slapped for the gun, but his aim was bad. I had it first. I reversed it and in my haste I inadvertently pulled the trigger. The silencer was extremely effective. There was a tiny coughing sound and the slug removed the lobe of George’s left ear before burying itself in the paneling behind him.