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When I returned to Sedalia’s apartment, I asked listlessly, “What am I looking for?”

“A railroad baggage stub. The kind that ties to the handle of a suitcase.”

The assignment failed to surprise me. My first five years with Sedalia I spent in a state of constant surprise. Since then nothing has been able to surprise me. “Because Adrian Thorpe’s suitcase had none tied to the handle? You think the murderer killed him just for a baggage stub?”

When she only grinned, I said irritably, “Maybe there never was a stub tied to it. Probably he just stuck it under his berth instead of checking it through.”

She shook her head. “The lack of a toilet kit in the suitcase indicates he carried it in his hand bag. There was nothing in the suitcase he needed on the train. Possibly he carried both pieces of luggage with him, but the obvious thing for him to have done was to check through the larger piece so he wouldn’t have to bother with it. Why the murderer removed the tag, I have no idea, but there’s an excellent chance he did remove it.”

“All right,” I said. “If I find the stub the first place I look, may I stop there?”

She nodded. “But if you don’t find it at all, I have a second chore for you. Go back to the same places and leave one of these envelopes at each place.”

She handed me five small envelopes, unsealed. Dubiously I opened one and found nothing except one of Sedalia’s engraved calling cards. But on the back had been written in ink, The murderer is invited to call at 3:00 PM, Sunday.

Without enthusiasm I asked, “Just where at each place do you wish these left?”

“Leaning against their telephones, so they can’t fail to see them the first time they answer the phone.”

“I see,” I said. “Against their telephones. I’m glad I asked, because I might have done something silly like dropping them in their mail boxes.”

“After they are asleep,” she went on. “Be sure they are in bed asleep before you leave any cards.”

For a minute I stared at her. “You mean you expect me to enter these people’s rooms while they are actually in them?”

“Probably Alvin Christopher and Jerome Straight have their phones somewhere other than their bedrooms,” she reassured me.

I continued to stare at her. “And the three who live in hotel rooms? You suppose their phones are down in the lobby somewhere instead of right next to their beds? Within grabbing distance.”

“Two of them are women,” she said impatiently. “If they awaken, they won’t grab you. They’ll only scream. Don’t be such an old maid.”

So I stopped being an old maid. I took a drink to steady my nerves and started out.

I do not like to talk about the illegal entries I am sometimes forced to make as an employee of Sedalia. Neither my skill at burglary nor my ability to find anything when I search a room are talents of which I am proud, but I must admit I have few peers at either.

During the first round I made I was lucky in finding no one home at any of my visits, and I finished by six o’clock. I found three baggage stubs: one attached to an extra suitcase in Mrs. Monica Madigan’s room, and white airline stubs tied to Gerald Rawlins’ suitcase and satchel. Irene Chambers apparently had brought only an overnight bag and had not checked it through.

I assumed none of these stubs would count, but in the forlorn hope that they might, I phoned Sedalia before starting the second round.

She said they did not.

The second round took me until two in the morning because I had to wait for everyone to go to sleep. Although I encountered no actual difficulty, the experience of entering five occupied bedrooms, one possibly occupied by a murderer, is something I do not care to dwell upon. Suffice to say all five had bedside phones, in spite of Sedalia’s suggestion that two of the visits would be easy, and by the time I disposed of the last note I was a nervous wreck.

When I arrived home Sedalia was still sitting up waiting for me, and hall door to her apartment was open. I walked by, ignoring her, slammed the door of my own room and went to bed.

Later I discovered it was four-thirty in the morning when the shots sounded, but at the time all I knew was that it was still dark. There must have been eight of them, spaced so closely they sounded like the roll of a heavy drum.

I came awake sitting up, not at all uncertain as to what had awakened me, as you sometimes are when it happens in the middle of the night, for at least half of the shots sounded after I was fully awake and aware of my surroundings. They came from Sedalia’s apartment across the hall.

Automatically I reached for my bed lamp, pulled the chain, but nothing happened. In the darkness I swung out of bed, groped my way to the wall and clicked the switch to the ceiling light.

Again nothing happened.

There is something panicking about unexpected darkness. I am not afraid of the dark... at least not-much. But being unable to dispel it unnerved me more than the shots had. I make no claim to bravery, but I am morally certain I would have rushed into Sedalia’s apartment had I been able to turn on the lights, for exasperating as she is, I have a certain fondness for the woman. As it was I managed to get my bedroom door open, but then I stood straining my eyes at blackness, unable to move a foot outside my room.

I was almost relieved when a flashlight glared into my eyes from the door to Sedalia’s apartment. But the relief was short-lived. Flush against the side of the flashlight, and protruding beyond the lens perhaps two inches, was the muzzle of a black automatic. Later, after the police examined the slugs found in Sedalia’s apartment, I learned the gun was a .38 caliber, whatever that means. But I know nothing of guns, and had I been asked to describe it, I would have said the hole looked about the size of a shotgun’s bore.

Imagination, no doubt.

With the light directly in my eyes, I could see nothing beyond it, not even the hand holding the gun. The person holding the flashlight stepped toward me and I stood frozen to the spot. Then the intruder backed down the hall, both the light and the gun still centered on me. Except for my head moving to follow the retreat in fascination, I made no movement whatever.

At the end of the hall the light suddenly winked out, the front door pulled open and then slammed shut. From outside a key turned in the lock.

It was at least a minute before I was able to do anything but stand there and shiver. My inability to move was sheer fright, I confess, but the shivering was at least partly due to the cold, for I sleep with a window open and it was freezing in the room.

Then I turned, tripped over a chair, finally made my way to the window and pushed it closed. Fumbling at my bedside stand, I found my cigarette lighter and by its glow located my robe and slippers. Holding the lighter aloft like a torch, I shuffled across the hall, flicked the switch just inside Sedalia’s door and for the third time was rewarded by continued darkness.

“Sedalia!” I shouted.

From somewhere beyond, her muffled voice called, “Is he gone, Hank?”

I felt a flood of relief. At least she was still alive. “Yes!” I yelled. “Where are you?”

I moved toward her bedroom, reached it just as a door bolt clicked back, and in the wavering light Sedalia opened her bathroom door. I had just time to see she too wore a robe and slippers when my lighter sputtered and went out.

“There’s candles on the mantel in the front room,” Sedalia said matter-of-factly. “And a paper of matches between them.”

Turning, I groped through darkness again, located the candles in their holders and lighted both of them. With one in either hand I returned to Sedalia’s room,

“What happened?” I asked.

“The killer found my card and took direct action, just as I expected,” she said smugly. “After you went to bed I phoned each suspect, then hung up when they answered. They couldn’t miss seeing the card when they answered the phone, of course. Four were simply puzzled, but the fifth, being impulsive, immediately assumed I was accusing him of murder.”