I sneaked down the verandah steps, holding my gun waist high, down the garden path and across the moonlit stretch of sand. The sound of the departing car became fainter and fainter, and finally died away.
I reached Benny Dwan and stood over him. Someone had shot him in the head, firing very close. The bullet had smashed in the side of his skull and burned his squashed ear with the gun flash.
He looked very harmless and lonely. He also looked very dead.
IV
The little blonde who looked after the PBX in the outer office gave me a coy little smile as I pushed open the frosted panel door on which was inscribed in gold letters: Universal Services, and on the right-hand bottom corner, in smaller letters: Executive Director: Victor Malloy.
“Good morning, Mr. Malloy,” she said, showing her nice white little teeth. She had a snub nose and puppy-dog manners. You felt you had only to pat her for her to wag her tail. A nice kid. Eighteen if she was a day, and only two heart throbs: me and Bing Crosby.
The two kids sitting behind typewriters, also blondes and also puppies, smiled the way Bobbysoxers smile and also said, “Good morning, Mr. Malloy.”
Mr. Malloy looked his harem over and said it was a swell morning.
“Miss Bensinger is over at County Buildings. She may be a little late,” the PBX blonde told me.
“Thanks, Trixy. I’ll be right in the office. When she comes in tell her I want her.”