Seconds (4 page)

The servant set the tray on the desk, bowed slightly, and without another word withdrew.

Wilson got up at once. He was definitely agitated now. The lights no longer held his attention. Just as the sight of some commuter dashing desperately through a crowded station toward his train will awaken, in the minds of the unhurried men he jostles, momentary fears that they, too, may be late, so the brief appearance of the businesslike little servant evoked in Wilson an imitative reaction that brought all of his apprehensions bristling up. He, too, must set about his affairs. No more mooning. He gave the tray, with its covered dishes, a glance, but reached instead for the telephone. First he would call his wife, then Mr. Franks, and then—

But the line was dead. He jiggled the receiver angrily.

It was useless.

He stared around the room, but of course there was no other phone. His vexation brought with it the sensation that he was completely restored to his normal state of mind. The drug—surely that tea had been drugged—had worn off now, he decided, and he looked with great suspicion on the tray that the servant had placed down so innocently. He would certainly not make the same mistake twice!

Well, if the telephone would not work, he would set out to find one that would—and perhaps he would just walk out of the building and have done with it all. Briskly he snatched up his hat and strode to the door, conscious that he had, through some unaccountable lapse, slipped into a false and perhaps dangerous position, from which he must at once extricate himself.

He opened the door and set off along a hallway. On each side were doors leading to what were presumably subordinate offices, and far ahead, at the end, was the usual bank of elevators. Reasoning that if the central switchboard were closed, none of the telephones in the other offices would be usable, Wilson went all the way to the elevators and pressed the call button of each, on the assumption that at night only one of them would be in operation.

As he waited before the blank elevator doors, somewhat nervously smoothing his clothing and adjusting his Homburg, and hoping that the smudges on his face would not attract attention when he reached the street, he became aware of faint sounds of activity emanating from the offices along the corridor. He heard the intermittent mumble of voices, and a variety of indistinguishable noises that could be caused by the shuffling of papers, the scraping of chairs on the floors, the gliding of file drawers, and so forth. In itself, this evidence of business operation did not disturb him, although he realized that it was late for an entire staff to be at work, but he had become so impressed with the unorthodox character of Joliffe's company (actually, he assumed that Joliffe was not the head of the firm, but rather some officer in it, perhaps comparable to an account executive), that he was not at all certain what might happen next. Suppose they found him absent from Joliffe's office and rushed out to prevent him from leaving? That notion was not so foolish as it might seem, for men who would drug a client's tea might be capable of anything. At this point, he recalled what had seemed to take place after he had drunk the tea, and he flushed with irritation and embarrassment.

To dismiss the picture of his encounter with the woman, he glanced up sternly at the elevator floor indicators. Each, however, still rested at ground level. He pressed the buttons again, vigorously. One of the elevators would surely be available, he knew, for otherwise the late-working staff members would be unable to descend. Nevertheless, even after he had pushed the buttons a third time, there was no sign of movement on the indicators, and he determined that he would use the stairs, if necessary, although he supposed that he might be a good forty flights above the street. He walked over to the door marked “Exit” and tried it. It was either locked or so tightly jammed that he could not open it.

Without pausing for reflection, he went straight to the nearest office door, pushed it open, and marched inside. At once he was nonplussed, for where he had expected to find an office of moderate size, with perhaps a desk or two and a filing cabinet, he was confronted with an enormous room that ran almost the entire width of the building and was full of men busy at a variety of occupations. Some were at desks, reading newspapers or working at jigsaw puzzles; others were engaged in little hobbies, such as gluing together ship models, while still others sat at their ease in comfortable chairs, reading books or taking part in games of chess or cards.

It was a perplexing scene, too complicated for Wilson to comprehend fully at once. He moved forward, thinking that although these men seemed to fall into the category of clerks—for they wore the little tan cloth jackets traditionally assigned to clerks in certain old-fashioned firms—they were clearly not engaged in clerical work, but rather seemed to be merely passing the time unproductively, with their games and puzzles. Then, too, he saw that they were well-padded with flesh, instead of conforming to the usual dried-up and bony pattern of middle-aged clerks.

He chose the nearest man, who was studying a stamp album. As he approached, the man looked up reluctantly, and Wilson realized then that his entry had produced not the slightest ripple of interest among the occupants of the huge room.

“Excuse me,” said Wilson firmly, “but I'm trying to find my way out of the building. The elevators don't seem to be running.”

The man hesitated, as if debating how to respond; his manner was polite, and he attempted to gloss over his delay by rising slowly from the desk, clearing his throat, adjusting his cuffs, and briefly examining his fingernails.

“Not running?” he said, pursing his lips and frowning slightly. “That's odd. Um, perhaps the night operator was away for the moment. Do you think you might try again?”

“I was standing there for at least ten minutes,” Wilson said. “Isn't there some way he can be notified?”

“I can try, if you like.” The man went without haste to a table nearby which supported an interoffice communications box, and painstakingly studied its markings. “This may be the one,” he said at length, and pressing one of the buttons, he spoke into the machine almost at once, without waiting for an inquiry: “I have a gentleman here who wishes to leave the building.”

A metallic voice responded: “Yes. That would be Mr. Wilson. Would you ask him to return to Mr. Joliffe's office, please? Mr. Ruby is waiting there.”

“All right.”

The man returned to Wilson, and regarded him with a kind of ironic reserve. It was puzzling. Wilson thought of the dust smudges on his face. Perhaps the man had resolved not to risk the possible breach of etiquette that would be involved if he mentioned the smudges, even while foreseeing that they would prove embarrassing to Wilson. But the man seemed to be looking at him with more compassion than the matter of smudges would call for.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Wilson?” he asked mildly. “They want you down at the end of the hall again.”

“Yes—well, all right. Thank you.”

Wilson turned around. He was baffled once more. He did not feel able to make an outright protest, and at the same time he was more than a little worried about the fact that events seemed to conspire to keep him prisoner. As he reached the door, he cautiously turned for one last look about the room. For an instant, he had the impression that every pair of eyes was fixed on him, and that something extremely peculiar was on the verge of taking place—that, for example, all those tan-jacketed middle-aged clerks would burst into shouts of derision—but then he saw approximately what he had seen at first, a scene of quiet, domestic activity. He thought, also, that he detected a familiar face or two: the bald man who had been his guide earlier in the day, and the servant who had lately delivered his supper tray, but he could not be sure, and just as he turned around again to pass out into the hall, he wondered if he had not seen a face still more familiar than these, a face that had swiftly been lowered. Whose face? And had the face been familiar—or merely the eyes? He did not know, but that single glimpse of something that bordered tantalizingly on recognition was extremely distressing, and as he stood once more in the empty hall, he found that he was trembling. Courage, he told himself; be firm, be dignified, insist on your rights. He tried to recall some incident in his past where he had acted boldly in the face of some similar foreboding, but none came to mind, and his impotence was at that moment underscored by the opening of the door to Joliffe's office at the end of the corridor, revealing a man's figure. A hearty voice came bowling down at him:

“Ah, there, Mr. Wilson!”

Silently, Wilson trudged back toward the office, his hat in his hand.

Mr. Ruby, who greeted him, was a portly little man with large dark eyes and the habit of puffing out his cheeks before each remark, as though his thoughts swelled up inside and then, beyond containing, exploded into speech.

Introducing himself as an assistant general counsel of the firm, he politely motioned Wilson to a chair, seated himself at the desk, busily fingered the contents of his briefcase for a moment as his cheeks gradually distended, and then briskly inquired:

“Well, what shall it be, sir—death or disappearance?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Of course, let me explain. It's partly a matter of cost, partly a matter of personal taste. Some clients are naturally sensitive on the question of death, and prefer the alternative, although my own opinion is strongly of the opposite. That is, assuming that cost is not a decisive factor, death has many advantages. For example, insurance is quickly paid, estate settlement is readily effected, trust arrangements are immediately operative, and then on the emotional side, a loving family is not subjected to the drawn-out hopes and worries involved in disappearance. Death is cut and dried and final, Mr. Wilson, as I'm sure a man of your experience will agree upon a few moments' reflection.”

Wilson felt terribly tired and dispirited. He thought that if he made another attempt to leave the building and it were frustrated, he would despair absolutely and simply lie down to sleep until morning. Should he try? He could not decide.

“Naturally, you have some questions, sir,” said Mr. Ruby, encouragingly. “I might add,” he said, as Wilson showed no signs of reacting, “that Mr. Joliffe remarked that you were an unusually perceptive client. I'm sure that you will have some penetrating observations to make on the respective merits of the alternatives.”

“I'm not a client,” said Wilson, defensively.

“Precisely, sir. You have signed nothing. You are absolutely right to make such a distinction at this point. Excellently put, Mr. Wilson.” The lawyer paused to permit his cheeks to inflate. “You are beginning, quite properly, from the most basic premise—you are not a client!”

Mr. Ruby's enthusiastic assent did not allay Wilson's alarm, but rather increased it. He felt, perhaps illogically, that as a client he might at least have some rights which the firm would be bound to respect, whereas merely as an ordinary visitor, he would have no status whatsoever, and so he resolved to leave this dangerous and complicated question for the time being, and to return to Mr. Ruby's specialty.

“Um, you mentioned the cost of death. Would you mind expanding on that?”

“Glad to,” Mr. Ruby responded. He leafed through his papers to be sure they were in order, in the course of which he provided himself with extra space by pushing the tray which held Wilson's untouched supper a bit to one side. “Let me start,” the lawyer said, “by describing to you what we call our first-class death. This costs in the neighborhood of thirty thousand dollars.” He absently reached over to the tray and lifted the silver dish that covered the plate. “Well, Mr. Wilson, this seems to be your supper. Won't you take it, sir? It's still nice and warm.”

“No, thank you. I'm not hungry.”

“Well, then, as you wish.” Mr. Ruby did not replace the silver dish, and a pleasing aroma of fried chicken rose from the plate. “That chicken looks delicious,” he remarked.

“I'm afraid I couldn't touch it.”

“Of course. As I was saying, thirty thousand dollars. This may seem high, but you must remember that we have to provide a reasonably fresh cadaver, identifiable as being yourself, which naturally would require the most expert medical and dental adjustments. Are you quite certain you don't want that chicken?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Pity,” said Mr. Ruby, sniffing the air. “Well, to return to the first-class death. In addition to the sources of expense I have mentioned, there is the problem that the circumstances of death must be reasonable and natural and above all, simple. Simplicity is costly, Mr. Wilson. Suppose the body is discovered in a hotel bedroom, and that death is the result, say, of a cerebral hemorrhage. You might not think this would be difficult.” Mr. Ruby allowed himself an ironic chuckle. “Believe me, sir, it is fiendishly troublesome! The surgery bill for a cerebral hemorrhage alone would stagger you. I can assure you, Mr. Wilson, we make no profit on these cases! But at the same time, we can do it. We can guarantee a death of this kind. It will stand up to the most rigorous tests.”

“Are there . . . other kinds?”

“Others? Oh, yes, there are two others.” Mr. Ruby gazed again at the uncovered plate. “It's a shame to let this go to waste, Mr. Wilson. Would you mind if I—?”

“Not at all. Please do.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Ruby delicately lifted a chicken leg from the plate and inspected it. “Well,” he went on, “a second-class death, for example. This would cost you about twenty thousand dollars. It is in the category of accidental death, you see.” He bit into the chicken and chewed the meat with relish. “The cadaver is struck by an automobile or falls from a window. Naturally, the effect of violence reduces the complexity of the surgery, although surgery still is required. Excuse me.” He paused to wipe his mouth with the napkin. “Delicious chicken, sir! . . . The chief disadvantage of the second-class death is that the violence is a source of distress to the family, although this is offset by the fact that the double indemnity feature of insurance is invoked.”