think up a plot for her and I'll then have a legitimate excuse for calling on her. She'll be on her own again next Monday. Between now and Monday, I should be able to dream up something: it doesn't matter how corny it is, but I can't barge in there without something to tell her. Reluctantly he started the car engine and drove on to Brent.
"Have you something on your mind, Mr. Anson?" Anna Garvin asked curiously.
Anson started, frowned and looked across the office to where Anna sat behind a typewriter. She had been working for him now for the past two years. She was young, fat, cheerful and capable. Apart from wearing heavy hornrimmed glasses which Anson disliked on women, she also had a talent for wearing all the wrong clothes which made her look more homely and fatter than necessary.
She had interrupted an idea he had been developing: an idea for a story which had to do with an insurance swindle.
"I've spoken to you twice," Anna went on. "You just sit there as if you were hatching a plot to murder someone."
Anson stiffened.
"Look, Anna, I'm busy. Keep quiet, can't you?"
She grimaced, screwing up her good-natured, fat face, then she went on with her typing.
Anson got to his feet and crossed to the window to stare down at the steady stream of traffic passing along Main Street.
This was Saturday morning. After lunch he had arranged to play a round of golf with a friend of his, but he now found himself in no mood for golf. He had Meg on his mind so badly he couldn't concentrate on his work. A dozen or so letters lay on his desk, waiting his attention, but he couldn't bring himself to bother with them.... as if you were hatching a plot to murder someone.
And that was exactly what he had been doing: planning a murder for gain, but, of course, only for this story he was working out for Meg Barlowe. Just suppose he had really been planning a murder. Was he so transparent that someone as simple as Anna could read his thoughts?
He forced himself to his desk.
"Let's go," he said and when Anna picked up her notebook, Anson began to dictate.
Anson had a one room apartment on the fourth floor of the Albany Arms, a block of apartments near the Brent railroad station. He had lived in this rabbit warren of a place since he had become the Field Agent for the Insurance Corporation.
Each apartment was provided with a garage which was situated in the basement of the building and approached by a long drive-in from the road.
Anson had played bad golf, had had an indifferent dinner, but he had had a lot to drink. Now, relaxed from the exercise and slightly drunk, he drove his car down the dimly lit drive-in and expertly swung the car into the stall allotted to him.
He noticed that most of the other stalls were empty. This was the weekend. There was always a rush to get out of Brent over the weekend, and Anson liked the quiet that prevailed in the apartment block, free from the racket of television, people walking over his head and children screaming and quarrelling in the courtyard.
He cut the engine, turned off the headlights and got out of the car. As he slammed the car door shut, he became aware that he wasn't alone. He looked sharply to his right.
A tall, thick-set man had appeared out of the shadows and was now standing looking at him from the entrance of the stall. His unexpected appearance gave Anson a start. He stared into the gloom, looking towards where the man was standing.
"Hi, palsy," the man said in a thick, husky voice. "I've been waiting quite a long time for you to show up."
Anson's heart skipped a beat and he felt a cold clutch of fear. He recognized this threatening, massive figure: Sailor Hogan! During the past days his mind had been so obsessed with Meg Barlowe he had entirely forgotten Joe Duncan's threat. Now he remembered what Duncan had said: You pay up on Saturday. If you don't, Sailor will be around to talk to you.
Anson recalled a story he had heard about Sailor Hogan. How he had visited a client of
"Have you something on your mind, Mr. Anson?" Anna Garvin asked curiously.
Anson started, frowned and looked across the office to where Anna sat behind a typewriter. She had been working for him now for the past two years. She was young, fat, cheerful and capable. Apart from wearing heavy hornrimmed glasses which Anson disliked on women, she also had a talent for wearing all the wrong clothes which made her look more homely and fatter than necessary.
She had interrupted an idea he had been developing: an idea for a story which had to do with an insurance swindle.
"I've spoken to you twice," Anna went on. "You just sit there as if you were hatching a plot to murder someone."
Anson stiffened.
"Look, Anna, I'm busy. Keep quiet, can't you?"
She grimaced, screwing up her good-natured, fat face, then she went on with her typing.
Anson got to his feet and crossed to the window to stare down at the steady stream of traffic passing along Main Street.
This was Saturday morning. After lunch he had arranged to play a round of golf with a friend of his, but he now found himself in no mood for golf. He had Meg on his mind so badly he couldn't concentrate on his work. A dozen or so letters lay on his desk, waiting his attention, but he couldn't bring himself to bother with them.... as if you were hatching a plot to murder someone.
And that was exactly what he had been doing: planning a murder for gain, but, of course, only for this story he was working out for Meg Barlowe. Just suppose he had really been planning a murder. Was he so transparent that someone as simple as Anna could read his thoughts?
He forced himself to his desk.
"Let's go," he said and when Anna picked up her notebook, Anson began to dictate.
Anson had a one room apartment on the fourth floor of the Albany Arms, a block of apartments near the Brent railroad station. He had lived in this rabbit warren of a place since he had become the Field Agent for the Insurance Corporation.
Each apartment was provided with a garage which was situated in the basement of the building and approached by a long drive-in from the road.
Anson had played bad golf, had had an indifferent dinner, but he had had a lot to drink. Now, relaxed from the exercise and slightly drunk, he drove his car down the dimly lit drive-in and expertly swung the car into the stall allotted to him.
He noticed that most of the other stalls were empty. This was the weekend. There was always a rush to get out of Brent over the weekend, and Anson liked the quiet that prevailed in the apartment block, free from the racket of television, people walking over his head and children screaming and quarrelling in the courtyard.
He cut the engine, turned off the headlights and got out of the car. As he slammed the car door shut, he became aware that he wasn't alone. He looked sharply to his right.
A tall, thick-set man had appeared out of the shadows and was now standing looking at him from the entrance of the stall. His unexpected appearance gave Anson a start. He stared into the gloom, looking towards where the man was standing.
"Hi, palsy," the man said in a thick, husky voice. "I've been waiting quite a long time for you to show up."
Anson's heart skipped a beat and he felt a cold clutch of fear. He recognized this threatening, massive figure: Sailor Hogan! During the past days his mind had been so obsessed with Meg Barlowe he had entirely forgotten Joe Duncan's threat. Now he remembered what Duncan had said: You pay up on Saturday. If you don't, Sailor will be around to talk to you.
Anson recalled a story he had heard about Sailor Hogan. How he had visited a client of
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