"That would do," she cried fervently. "Hang himself! If he only saw himself as I see him, he'd be lucky if he could hang himself."
Seven o'clock came. Mr. Chisholm took one final snort before putting on his hat and turning out the lights. He must be in fine form when he met Mr. Lonigan. Lonigan was an important buyer and he was coming in on the Rocket at seven thirty. The evening was already planned. He was to meet the buyer, take him to dinner, then meet the McKittricks in the lobby of the Palace Theater. Mr. McKittrick was the president of POHAC and had six box seats for the show. With him would be Mrs. McKittrick, Mrs. Chisholm, and a certain very personable young woman whom the company employed from time to time to fill in on just such occasions. It promised to be a gay evening, and as soon as he had a chance to whisper to the big boss about the order he had topped the day off with, even McKittrick would concede that he had the best sales manager ever.
Chisholm jabbed the elevator button, whistling merrily as he stood back to watch the oscillations of the telltale above the door.
"Nice night, Jerry," he said cheerily to the elevator man.
"A very nice night, sir," agreed Jerry. But he never took his eyes off the column of blinking ruby lights before his nose. Mr. Chisholm was to be the most mistrusted when he was in a benign mood. It was usually the come-on for some probing and tricky questions. Like, "I saw Mr. Naylor get in your car awhile ago. What a card! He's higher'n a kite tonight. Ha, ha." Any response to a remark of that sort was sure to mean trouble for somebody.
Chisholm was in an expansive mood and strode along as if he owned the earth. He felt fine. It did not matter that ten of his men had quit that week, and not all of them had been as restrained as old man Firrel in their good-bys. What did he care for the weak sisters? An ad in tomorrow's papers would fill up the anteroom with forty more. If they clicked—weeks from now—so much the better; if not, how could he lose? POHAC's sales department was strictly a straight commission outfit.
He turned through the park. It was not only a short cut but pleasanter walking, except for the beggars. One met him and whined for a cup of coffee, but Chisholm growled at him and stalked on by. Farther on he came to a place where the path passed through some heavy shrubbery. There were deep shadows there and he hesitated a moment. He would have felt better if a policeman were in sight. Then he reminded himself of what puny creatures most of the panhandlers were and of his own brawn. He walked on.
A man was coming toward him. Just as he supposed, the man was another beggar. He asked for a dime. Chisholm realized it was dark where he was and thought perhaps a dime was cheap insurance against an argument. He stopped and groped in his change pocket for the coin. At that moment something happened. The beggar suddenly grasped his right arm, while another man stepped out of the bushes and grabbed his left. At the same instant someone from the rear locked an arm about his throat and lifted. He was off his feet and choking—skilled hands were exploring his pockets—he kicked and squirmed only to feel the viselike grip on his neck tighten maddeningly. There was an inward plop and something cracked just under his skull with a sharp detonation and a blinding flare of light. Mr. Chisholm had been brutally mugged. Mr. Chisholm was quite dead.
Two hours and a quarter later a group of four were still waiting impatiently in the foyer of the Palace. An angry man from St. Louis sat in the back of a cafeteria eating his supper. He had not been met at the station as promised; neither the office phone, nor McKittrick's or Chisholm's home phones had answered. Not that he minded missing Chisholm particularly—he had always thought him a phony—but he did like the McKittricks. The party at the theater were equally angry, though they showed it less.