Роберт Артур - Alfred Hitchcock’s A Hangman’s Dozen

“Ground floor then?” the operator asked.

“Yes. Ground floor.”

When the elevator stopped, he got out of it quickly. He walked directly — to Atkins’ office. The secretary-receptionist was already gone. He smiled grimly, went to Atkins’ door, and knocked on it.

“Who is it?” Atkins asked.

“Me,” he said. “Blair.”

“Oh, Nick. Come in, come in,” Atkins said.

He opened the door and entered the office.

“Come for your pay?” Atkins asked.

“Yes.”

He wanted to pull the Luger now and begin firing. He waited. Tensely, he waited.

“Little drink, first, Nick?” Atkins asked.

“No,” he said.

“Come on, come on. Little drink never hurt anybody.”

“I don’t drink,” he said.

“My father used to say that.”

“I’m not your father.”

“I know,” Atkins said. “Come on, have a drink. It won’t hurt you. Your job’s over now. Your performance is over.” He underlined the word smirkingly. “You can have a drink. Everyone’ll be taking a little drink tonight.”

“No.”

“Why not? I’m trying to be friendly. I’m trying to...”

Atkins stopped. His eyes widened slightly. The Luger had come out from beneath Blair’s coat with considerable ease. He stared at the gun.

“Wh... what’s that?” he said.

“It’s a gun,” Blair answered coldly. “Give me my pay.”

Atkins opened the drawer quickly. “Certainly. Certainly. You didn’t think I was... was going to cheat you, did you? You...”

“Give me my pay.”

Atkins put the envelope on the desk. Blair picked it up.

“And here’s yours,” he said, and he fired three times, watching Atkins collapse on the desk.

The enormity of the act rattled him. The door. The door. He had to get to it. The wastepaper basket tripped him up, sent him lunging forward, but his flailing arms gave him a measure of balance and kept him from going down.

He checked his flight before he had gone very far into the store. Poise, he told himself. Control. Remember you’re Randolph Blair.

The counters were already protectively concealed by dust-sheets.

They reminded him of a body, covered, dead. Atkins.

Though he bolted again, he had enough presence of mind this time to duck into a rest room.

He was unaware of how long he had remained there, but when he emerged it was evident he had completely collected himself. His walk suggested the regal, or the confident calm of an actor sure of his part. And as he walked, he upbraided himself for having behaved like a juvenile suddenly overwhelmed by stage fright.

Randolph Blair pushed through the revolving doors. There was a sharp bite to the air, the promise of snow. He took a deep breath, calmly surveyed the people hurrying along, their arms loaded with packages.

And suddenly he heard laughter, a child’s thin, piercing laugh. It cut into him like a knife. He turned and saw the laughing boy, tethered by one hand to the woman beside him, the boy’s pale face, his arm and forefinger pointing upwards, pointing derisively.

More laughter arose. The laughter of men, of women. A festive carousel, in the show window to one side of him, started up. Its music blared. It joined in the laughter, underscoring, counterpointing the laughter.

Blair felt caught in a punishing whirlpool. There seemed no way he could stop the sound, movement, everything that conspired to batter him.

Then the sight of policemen coming out of the store was completely unnerving. They appeared to be advancing toward him. And as he pulled the Luger on them, and even as he was overpowered and disarmed, a part of his mind felt that this was all unreal, all part of the dramatic role which he was playing.

But it was not a proper part for one wearing the red coat and trousers, the black belt and boots of a department store Santa Claus, the same clothes three thousand other men in the city were wearing. To blend into their anonymity, he lacked only a white beard, and he had lost his in the frantic exit he had made from Atkins’ office.

And of course to a child — and even to some adults — a Santa Claus minus a beard might be a laughing matter.

Here we have an attempt to solve a marital problem somewhat differently, by means of poison — as sophisticated and swift a solution, incidentally, as any that has been put forward up to this time. Of course, a question arises: Who shall take the poison? The interesting thing is it doesn’t much matter — just as long as somebody does.

“Darling,” Sherry said, “I’m so glad you’re behaving like a civilized being.”

“Oh, I’m a great believer in civilized beings,” I said. “In my opinion, they are essential to civilization.”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “it is absolutely exceptional of you to suggest that the three of us get together and talk things out quietly and courteously. Not,” she added, “that it will change anything in the end.”

“What do you mean, not that it will change anything?”

“I mean that I am quite determined to leave you, of course. Surely you understand that.”

“I understand that it’s your intention, but I am hoping to change your mind.”

“Well, it’s only fair to give you a chance, which I am willing to do, but I assure you that it’s impossible. I am in love with Dennis and am going to marry him, and that’s all there is to it. I’m truly sorry, darling, but it’s necessary to my happiness.”

“This means, I take it, that you are consequently no longer in love with me. Is that true?”

“Not at all. Please don’t be absurd. I love you very much, as you very well know, but in a less exciting way. I am madly and deliriously and irresistibly in love with Dennis.”

“Once you were madly and deliriously and irresistibly in love with me. At least you said you were.”

“So I was, but now the way I am in love with you is unfortunately changed. It’s sad, isn’t it, the way things change?”

I looked at her with a great aching in my heart, for however sadly and unfortunately her way of loving me had changed, my way of loving her had not changed at all. So bright and fair and incredibly lovely, I also saw that she was wearing a soft white gown that achieved a perfect balance of exposure and suggestion.

“Will you have a martini?” I said.

“When Dennis gets here, we will have one together. It will make everyone feel relaxed and comfortable, don’t you think? Martinis are quite good for that.”

“I thought we might just have one beforehand. We can have another later, of course.”

“Well, I’m not averse to that, but there’s the doorbell now, if I’m not mistaken, and it’s surely Dennis.”

She was right about its being the doorbell. She was almost certainly right, too, about its being Dennis. I was compelled to accept this reluctantly.

“You had better let him in,” I said.

She went out into the hall and opened the front door, and it was Dennis outside. He came into the hall, and Sherry put her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was nothing new for her to kiss various men, but this kiss was different and plainly special. It was ardent, to say the least, and it lasted for quite a long time. From my position in the living room, I could see it clearly, but I quit looking at it before it was finished, and started mixing martinis, and I was still mixing the martinis when Sherry and Dennis came in.

“Well, you two,” Sherry said, “here we are.”

“That’s true,” I said. “We’re here, all right.”

“This is Dennis, Sherm,” Sherry said. “Dennis, this is Sherm.”