them.” He patted the registry. “If there’s ever a fire, we’ll know
exactly who’s in the building and where we can find them.”
“What about maintenance crews?”
“What about them?”
“Janitors. Cleaning women. Any working now?”
“Not on Friday night.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.” He was visibly upset by the interrogation and
beginning to wander if he should cooperate. “They come in all day
tomorrow.”
“Building engineer?”
“Schiller. He’s night engineer.”
“Where is Schiller?”
“Downstairs.”
lee “Where downstairs?”
“Checking one of the heat pumps, I think.”
“Is he alone?”
“Yeah.”
“How many other security guards?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s up?”
“For God’s sake, this is an emergency!” Bollinger aid. “How many
security guards besides you?”
“Just two. What emergencyz”
“There’s been a bomb threat.”
The guard’s lips trembled. The mustache seemed about to fall off.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
The guard slid off his stool, stepped from behind the lectern.
At the same time Bollinger took the Walther from his pocket.
The guard blanched. “What’s that?”
“A gun. Don’t go for yours.”
“Look, this bomb threat … I didn’t call it in.”
Bollinger laughed.
“It’s true.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Hey … that gun has a silencer on it.”
“Yeah.
“But policemen don’t-” Bollinger shot him twice in the chest.
The impact of the bullets threw the guard into the sheet marble.
For an instant he stood very straight, as if he were waiting for someone
to measure his height and mark it on the wall. Then he collapsed.
part FRIDAY 8:00 P.M 8:30 P.M
Bollinger turned immediately from the dead man and looked at the
revolving doors.
Nobody was there, no one on the sidewalk beyond, no one who might have
seen the killing.
Moving quickly but calmly, he tucked the pistol into his pocket and
grabbed the body by the arms. He dragged it into the waiting area
between the first two banks of elevators. Now, anyone coming to the
doors would see only an empty lobby.
The dead man stared at him. The mustache seemed to have been painted on
his lip.
Bollinger turned out the guard’s pockets. He found quarters, dimes, a
crumpled five-dollar bill, and a key ring with seven keys.
He returned to the main part of the lobby.
He wanted to go straight to the door, but he knew that was not a good
idea. That would put him in camera range. If the men monitoring the
closed-circuit system saw him locking the door, they would be curious.
They’d come to investigate, and he would lose the advantage of surprise.
Keeping in mind the details of the plans he had studied at City Hall
that afternoon, he walked quietly to the rear of the lobby and stepped
into a short corridor on the left. Four rooms led off the hall.
The second on the right was the guards’ room, and the door was open.
Wondering if the squeaking of his wet shoes sounded as loud to the
guards as it did to him, he edged up to the open door.
Inside, two men were talking laconically about their jobs, complaining,
but only halfheartedly.
Bollinger took the pistol from his coat pocket. He walked through the
doorway.
The men were sitting at a small table in front of three television
screens. They weren’t watching the monitors. They were playing
two-handed pinochle.
The older of the two was in his fifties. Heavy. Grayhaired. He had a
prizefighter’s lumpy face. The name “Neely” was stitched on his left
shirt pocket. He was slow. He looked up at Bollinger, failed to react
as he should have to the gun, and said without fear, “What’s this?
The other guard was in his thirties. Trim. Ascetic face. Pale hands.
As he turned to see what had caught Neely’s attention, Bollinger saw
“Faulkner” stitched on his shirt.
He shot Faulkner first.
Reaching with both hands for his ruined throat, too late to stop the
life from gushing out of him, Faulkner toppled backward in his chair.
“Hey!” ‘Fat Neely was finally on his feet. His holster was snapped
shut. He grappled with it.
Bollinger shot him.m twice.
Neely did an ungraceful pirouette, fell on the table, collapsed it, and