"Third floor. There's a self-service elevator over there." He pointed, and, looking again at Sir Charles, he added, "Sir."
"Thank you," said Sir Charles.
He took the elevator to the third floor. It let him off in a dimly lighted corridor, from which opened several doors. Only one door had a light behind it showing through the ground glass. It was marked "Private." He tapped on it gently; a voice called out, "Come in." He went in. Two big men were playing gin rummy across a desk.
One of them asked him, "Yeah?"
"Is either of you Mr. Corianos?"
"What do you want to see him about?"
"My card, sir." Sir Charles handed it to the one who had spoken; he felt sure by looking at them that neither one of them was Nick Corianos. "Will you tell Mr. Corianos that I wish to speak to him about a matter in connection with the play he is backing?"
The man who had spoken looked at the card. He said, "Okay," and put down his hand of cards; he walked to the door of an inner office and through it. After a moment he appeared at the door again; he said, "Okay." Sir Charles went in.
Nick Corianos looked up from the card lying on the ornate mahogany desk before him. He asked, "Is it a gag?"
"Is what a gag?"
"Sit down. Is it a gag, or are you really Sir Charles Han-over Gresham? I mean, are you really a--that would be a knight, wouldn't it? Are you really a knight?"
Sir Charles smiled. "I have never yet admitted, in so many words, that I am not. Would it not be foolish to start now? At any rate, it gets me in to see people much more easily."
Nick Corianos laughed. He said, "I see what you mean. And I'm beginning to guess what you want. You're a ham, aren't you?"
"I am an actor. I have been informed that you are backing a play; in fact, I have seen a script of the play. I am interested in playing the role of Richter."
Nick Corianos frowned. "Richter--that's the name of the blackmailer in the play?"
"It is." Sir Charles held up a hand. "Please do not tell me offhand that I do not look the part. A true actor can look, and can be, anything. I can be a blackmailer."
Nick Corianos said, "Possibly. But I'm not handling the casting."
Sir Charles smiled, and then let the smile fade. He stood up and leaned forward, his hands resting on Nick's ma-hogany desk. He smiled again, but the smile was different. His voice was cold, precise, perfect. He said, "Listen, pal, you cant shove me off. I know too much. Maybe I can't prove it myself, but the police can, once I tell them where to look. Walter Donovan. Does that name mean anything to you, pal? Or the date September first? Or a spot a hundred yards off the road to Bridgeport, halfway between Stamford and there. Do you think you can--?"
"That's enough," Nick said. There was an ugly black automatic in his right hand. His left was pushing a buzzer on his desk.
Sir Charles Hanover Gresham stared at the automatic, and he saw it--not only the automatic, but everything. He saw death, and for just a second there was panic.
And then all the panic was gone, and there was left a vast amusement.
It had been perfect, all down the line. The Perfect Crime--advertised as such, and he hadn't guessed it. He hadn't even suspected it.
And yet, he thought, why wouldn't--why shouldn't-- Wayne Campbell be tired enough of a blackmailer who had bled him, however mildly, for so many years? And why wouldn't one of the best playwrights in the world be clever enough to do it this way?
So clever, and so simple, however Wayne had come across the information against Nick Corianos which he had written on a special page, especially inserted in his copy of the script. Speak the speech, I pray you--
And he had even known that he, Charles, wouldn't give him away. Even now, before the trigger was pulled, he could blurt: "Wayne Campbell knows this, too. He did it, not I!"
But even to say that now couldn't save him, for that black automatic had turned fiction into fact, and although he might manage Campbell's death along with his own, it wouldn't save his own life. Wayne had even known him well enough to know, to be sure, that he wouldn't do that--at no advantage to himself.
He stood up straight, taking his hands off the desk but carefully keeping them at his sides, as the two big men came through the wide doorway that led to the outer office.
Nick said, "Pete, get that canvas mail sack out of the drawer out there. And is the car in front of the service entrance?"
"Sure, chief." One of the men ducked back through the door.
Nick hadn't taken his eyes-- or the cold muzzle of the gun-- off Sir Charles.
Sir Charles smiled at him. He said, "May I ask a boon?"
"What?"
"A favor. Besides the one you already intend to do for me. I ask thirty-five seconds."
"Huh?"
"I've timed it; it should take that long. Most actors do it in thirty-- they push the pace. I refer, of course, to the immortal lines from Macbeth. Have I your permission to die thirty-five seconds from now, rather than right at this exact instant?"
Nick's eyes got even narrower. He said, "I don't get it, but what's thirty-five seconds, if you really keep your hands in sight?"
Sir Charles said, "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and to-morrow--"
One of the big men was back in the doorway, something made of canvas rolled up under his arm. He asked, "Is the guy screwy?" "Shut up," Nick said.
And then no one was interrupting him. No one was even impatient. And thirty-five seconds were ample.
He paused, and the quiet pause lengthened.
He bowed slightly and straightened so the audience would know that there was no more. And then Nick's finger tightened on the trigger. The applause was deafening.
Beware of the Dog
The seed of murder was planted in the mind of Wiley Hughes the first time he saw the old man open the safe.
There was money in the safe. Stacks of it.
The old man took three bills from one orderly pile and handed them to Wiley. They were twenties.
"Sixty dollars even, Mr. Hughes," he said. "And that's the ninth payment." He took the receipt Wiley gave him, closed the safe, and twisted the dial.
It was a small, antique-looking safe. A man could open it with a cold chisel and a good crowbar, if he didn't have to worry about how much noise he made.
The old man walked with Wiley out of the house and down to the iron fence. After he'd closed the gate behind Wiley, he went over to the tree and untied the dog again.
Wiley looked back over his shoulder at the gate, and at the sign upon it: "Beware of the Dog."
There was a padlock on the gate too, and a bell button set in the gatepost. If you wanted to see old man Erskine you had to push that button and wait until he'd come out of the house and tied up the dog and then unlocked the gate to let you in.
Not that the padlocked gate meant anything. An able-bodied man could get over the fence easily enough. But once in the yard he'd be torn to pieces by that hound of hell Erskine kept for a watchdog.
A vicious brute, that dog.
A lean, underfed hound with slavering jaws and eyes that looked death at you as you walked by. He didn't run to the fence and bark. Nor even growl.
Just stood there, turning his head to follow you, with his yellowish teeth bared in a snarl that was the more sinister in that it was silent.