I went to an all night cafe and ordered a hamburger plate and read the paper. They had identified the victim by the wallet they found on him. My wallet, of course. And that meant that the little man had planted it on him and then killed him. With a poisoned needle the papers said.
Why?
I gave up trying to figure it out after a while and went to my apartment. I had made up my mind to get out of town. They might find out the victim's real identity, and then they would come looking for me to find out why my wallet was on him.
I locked the door and began packing clothes into a suitcase. I became aware after a while of someone standing behind me. I jerked around in alarm. It was the little man.
"You!" I blurted. "How'd you get in here?" I doubled a fist and started toward him. He had killed a man and planted my wallet on the corpse.
Then, suddenly, a queer distortion blanketed my mind. I had a strange conviction that things were happening just the way they had happened before—many times before—only not at different times, but this very instant.
Abruptly, like a veil drawing away from a window, the distortion vanished. With preternatural clarity everything that had happened flooded into memory.
"Good!" Golfin said. "I see the time-lines have emerged as true memories. And this time I saved your life."
"You think so?" I snarled. "The police will be after me by morning. They'll pin the murder on me—the murder you committed."
He was shaking his head. "I didn't kill George Wile. Let me explain what happened. But go on with your packing. I can talk while you work."