100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The Box by Isak Romun

Working for Stromberg was like being locked in a box. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t get out. That’s how I felt — as if I were in a box, and only Stromberg had the key.

But one day I found another key, one that would unlock the lid of the box just as effectively as Stromberg’s key. Which he would never use. So I would use my own.

My key was death.

Once I had made the decision, I found it quite easy to live with. With something like gusto I attacked the matter of a plan — how I would kill Stromberg. It should not be something complex or difficult. Simple plans are usually the safest. But I had no experience.

Oh, certainly, I had read mystery stories, had even in my mind concocted ways and means of putting to rest the fictional victims I met on the printed page. And with more panache than many of their creators! But there’s a difference between a cold, paper thing and a warm, pulsing human organism. Not that Stromberg could be called warm and pulsing. He was like a fish, and it was my intent to hook that fish.

But how to hook him? I thought of poison. Traceable. A hit-and-run accident. Unpredictable — Stromberg might not die. A gun. Noisy and messy. Besides, none of these methods passed the test of simplicity. I determined to use materials and circumstances at hand.

I was evaluating the merits of a push down a stairway when Hopkinson came up to me. “I’ll need two dollars from you,” he said. I asked why. “Stromberg’s farewell gift. He’s put in for retirement. Lucky you. I hear he said you were the only man to fill his shoes.” Did I hear right? Was it true?

It was true! Suddenly I was outside my box. I would not have to kill Stromberg. Matter of fact, he began to look quite human to me. I realized with remorse that what I thought were constraints on me were, in reality, his way of testing me, of training me. That good fellow really had my best interests at heart. At his retirement bash we posed for a parting photo, smiling, each with an arm about the other’s shoulder.

I’ve been chief now for almost five years. But don’t think it’s been all fun. By no means. When you become a supervisor, you take on something called responsibility. Something only you have. It’s up to you to see that the job gets done, that your section functions smoothly.

I swear, though, there are times I throw up my hands in despair. I’m pressured to produce, but with what must I produce? A bunch of incompetents who’d rather hang around the water cooler than do an honest day’s work.

The worst is Hopkinson. He said a strange unsettling thing to me the other day. He said working for me is like being locked in a box.

Perhaps I should check with the personnel office about retirement.