The room held no further surprises. I departed it, gathered an armload of strewn newspapers, carried them to the john, tossed them into the bathtub, and set fire to them, opening the window on the way out. I visited the sanctum then, fetched out the Tree of Life painting, brought it back and added it to the blaze. I switched aff the bathroom light and closed the door as I left. I’m one hell of an art critic.
I headed for the stacks of miscellaneous papers on the bookshelves then and began a disappointing search among them. I was halfway through my second heap when the telephone rang.
The world seemed to freeze as my thoughts sprinted. Of course. Today was the day when I was supposed to find my way here and be killed. Chances seemed decent that if it were going to happen it would -have happened by now. So this could well be S, calling to learn whether my obituary had been posted. I turned and located the phone, back on the shadowy wall near the bedroom. I had known immediately that I was going to answer it. Moving toward it, I was allowing two to three rings-twelve to eighteen seconds-in which to decide whether my response was to consist of a wisecrack, an insult and a threat, or whether I was going to try to fake it and see what I might learn. As satisfying as the former could be, spoilsport prudence dictated the latter course and also suggested I confine myself to low monosyllables and pretend to be injured and out of breath. I raised the receiver, ready to hear S’s voice at last and find out whether I knew him.
“Yes?” I said.
“Well? Is it done?” came the response.
Damn pronoun. It was a woman. Wrong gender but a right sounding question. One out of two isn’t bad, though. I exhaled heavily, then: “Yeah.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m hurt,” I croaked.
“Is it serious?”
“Think so. Got something-here-though. Better come-see.”
“What is it? Something of his?”
“Yeah. Can’t talk. Getting dizzy. Come.”
I cradled the phone and smiled. I thought it very well played. I’d a feeling I’d taken her in completely.
I crossed the living room to the same chair I had occupied earlier, drew up one of the small tables bearing a large ashtray, seated myself, and reached for my pipe: Time to rest, cultivate patience, think a bit.
Moments later I felt a familiar, almost electrical tingling. I was on my feet in an instant, snatching up the ashtray, butts flying like bullets about me, cursing my stupidity yet again as I looked frantically about the room.
There! Before the red drapes, beside the piano. Taking form . . .
I waited for the full outline, then hurled the ashtray as hard as I could.
An instant later she was there-tall, russet-haired, darkeyed, holding what looked like a .38 automatic.
The ashtray hit her in the stomach and she doubled forward with a gasp.
I was there before she could straighten.
I jerked the gun out of her hand and threw it across the room. Then I seized both her wrists, spun her around and seated her hard in the nearest chair. In her left hand she still held a Trump. I snatched it away. It was a representation of this apartment, and it was done in the same style as the Tree and the cards in my pocket.
“Who are you?” I snarled.
“Jasra,” she spat back, “dead man!”
She opened her mouth wide and her head fell forward. I felt the moist touch of her lips upon the back of my left forearm, which still held her own right wrist against the chair’s arm. Seconds later I felt an excruciating pain there. It was not a bite, but rather felt as if a fiery nail had been driven into my flesh.
I let go her wrist and jerked my arm away. The movement was strangely slow, weakened. A cold, tingling sensation moved down into the hand and up along the arm. My hand dropped to my side and seemed to go away. She extricated herself easily from my grip, smiled, placed her fingertips lightly upon my chest and pushed.