Read Online Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense by Linda Landrigan - Free Book Online Page B

not even change his clothes. He would go straight to Atkins’s office and he would collect his pay envelope and he would shoot him. He would run into the streets then. In the streets he would be safe. In the streets Randolph Blair—the man whose face was once known to millions—would be anonymously safe. The concept was ironical. It appealed to a vestige of humor somewhere deep within him. Randolph Blair would tonight play the most important role of his career, and he would play it anonymously.
    Smiling, chuckling, he listened to the requests.
    The crowd began thinning out at about four thirty. He was exhausted by that time. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that he would soon kill Mr. Atkins.
    At four forty-five, he answered his last request. Sitting alone then, a corpulent unsmiling man, he watched the clock on the wall. Four fifty. Four fifty-two, fifty-seven. Four fifty-nine.
    He got off the chair and waddled to the elevator banks. The other employees were tallying the cash register receipts, anxious to get out of the store. He buzzed for the elevator and waited.
    The doors slid open. The elevator operator smiled automatically.
    â€œAll over, huh?” he asked.
    â€œYes, it’s all over,” Blair said.
    â€œGoing to pick up your envelope? Cashier’s office?”
    â€œMr. Atkins pays me personally,” he said.
    â€œYeah? How come?”
    â€œHe wanted it that way,” he answered.
    â€œMaybe he’s hoping you’ll be good to him, huh?” the operator said, and he burst out laughing.
    He did not laugh with the operator. He knew very well why Atkins paid him personally. He did it so that he would have the pleasure each week of handing Randolph Blair—a man who had once earned five thousand dollars in a single week—a pay envelope containing forty-nine dollars and thirty-two cents.
    â€œGround floor then?” the operator asked.
    â€œYes. Ground floor.”
    When the elevator stopped, he got out of it quickly. He walked directly to Atkins’s office. The secretary-receptionist was already gone. He smiled grimly, went to Atkins’s door, and knocked on it.
    â€œWho is it?” Atkins asked.
    â€œMe,” he said. “Blair.”
    â€œOh, Nick. Come in, come in,” Atkins said.
    He opened the door and entered the office.
    â€œCome for your pay?” Atkins asked.
    â€œYes.”
    He wanted to pull the Luger now and begin firing. He waited. Tensely, he waited.
    â€œLittle drink first, Nick?” Atkins asked.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    â€œCome on, come on. Little drink never hurt anybody.”
    â€œI don’t drink,” he said.
    â€œMy father used to say that.”
    â€œI’m not your father.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œIt’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 …”
    â€œGive me my pay.”
    Atkins put the envelope on the desk. Blair picked it up.
    â€œAnd 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