Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 9, No. 3, March 1964

Experience Is Helpful by Rog Phillips

In this day of far-flung corporations, distinct advantages are open to the traveling man. It follows, “Nothing is ever gained without something first being ventured!”

When Mark Spencer paid off the cab and saw his boss’ car parked at the curb, it was as though he had known unconsciously all along, from the day he had been promoted out of the shop to the newly created job of Special Field Engineer, two years ago.

The boss’ car parked in front of his apartment building. Mark looked up at the windows of the third floor apartment where he lived. They were dark.

He went slowly to the driver’s side of the sleek car and stooped down, peering through the window. It was Hugo Rice’s car, all right. And the keys dangled from the ignition. That was a bad habit Hugo had, leaving his keys in the car. And now that Mark thought of it, Hugo had other bad habits, like carrying a gun in the glove compartment.

Rejecting the whole thing, Mark Spencer straightened up and shook his head violently, then looked again. He was still on the darkened street; the car was still there; the apartment windows up above stared at the sky, ignoring him. He wished, suddenly and fervently, that he were still in Chicago where he was supposed to be for another day. Then he wouldn’t know...

It occurred to him that he still didn’t know for sure. There could be lots of explanations. He set his suitcase down and carefully opened the car door and took the keys, closing the door with gentle pressure that brought only a faint click. He put the keys in his pocket and picked up his suitcase.

With his own keys he let himself into the building, and hid his suitcase in the janitor’s closet under the stairs before ascending the thickly padded stairs to the third floor. His apartment was 3C. He pressed his ear to the door panel, then slipped the key into the lock, turning it gently until the door gave inward.

A moment later he was inside.

The bedroom door was open a few inches. There was no light, but there didn’t need to be; there were sounds. Mark Spencer took a step forward, his fingers stretching into claws. Then, slowly, he stepped back and out into the hall, closing the door.

There had been one other time, about six months ago, when Mark had come home a day early. That time he had called Claire from the airport before catching a taxi. He thought of that time now. Claire had seemed slightly breathless over the phone that time, but nothing had seemed wrong to his unsuspicious mind when he arrived home.

But Hugo hadn’t seemed particularly glad to see him back the next morning at work. Mark could understand why, now. Hugo had been routed out of bed the night before and had probably had to check in at some hotel for the rest of the night — because Hugo undoubtedly told his own wife, Mildred, that he was going “out of town”.

Mildred. How was she going to take this? A rather plain woman in her forties, but with a quiet pride at being Mrs. Hugo Price. It would kill her.

Mark stopped on the second floor landing and half turned, looking back up the infinitely lonely stair well. What was this going to do to him?

It would cost him his job, of course, besides kicking Claire out of the apartment and suing her for divorce. He would have to get a job as a machinist again, somewhere. Jobs of Special Field Engineer didn’t grow on trees.

He was a good field engineer. He had found he had a special talent for working the bugs out of highly complex instruments and machines in the field. But Hugo, after being exposed for what he was, could hardly be expected to give him a high recommendation.

Mark Spencer continued down the stairs, one slow step at a time. Out on the sidewalk he stopped, a slow smile growing on his face.

He took Hugo’s key ring out of his pocket. Car keys, the key to the office, the key to the back door of the plant, and two keys Mark didn’t recognize.

He went to Hugo’s car and slid in behind the wheel. Before he started the motor he reached into the glove compartment and made sure the gun was there. As an afterthought he took it out and made sure the clip was loaded.

Then he started the motor and drove off into the night.

Killing Mildred was not as difficult as Mark had anticipated. She had not even stirred in her sleep when he went into her bedroom quietly and turned on the light.

By now Mark was thinking in terms of later police investigation. Or even earlier police investigation. He touched nothing except with his handkerchief. He kept in mind the fact that he was doing Mildred a kindness. How many women with unfaithful husbands died in their sleep without ever having found out what was going on? Mildred was really very lucky.

Mark left the bedroom light on and the front door unlocked. He paused in the shadows on the porch and waited to make sure he would not meet anyone on the way back to Hugo’s car, parked at the curb.

He detoured to the factory and let himself in with Hugo’s key. He put the gun in the center drawer of Hugo’s desk after rubbing it clean of fingerprints again, including the clip. That second unfamiliar key on Hugo’s key ring was for that desk drawer, Mark discovered. He locked the drawer.

Before he left the plant he went to his own office and called the police, disguising his voice and making it sound sleepy.

“Hello? Police station?” he said, his voice devoid of energy. “I think I heard a shot next door at the Rice’s place. Maybe Hugo shot Mildred, they don’t get along too well. They live at nineteen thirty-six Crest Drive. Got that? Nineteen thirty-six Crest Drive.” He hung up while the desk sergeant was asking for his name and phone number.

He drove straight to his apartment house and parked Hugo’s car in the same spot it had been parked before, and left the keys dangling from the ignition.

He walked two blocks to the neighborhood gas station, now closed for the night. He used the outside phone booth and dialed his apartment number and let it ring. He could visualize Claire and Hugo in bed, Claire debating whether to answer, and Hugo pointing out that if it was Mark coming back a day early, she’d better answer.

On the seventh ring she answered, her voice sleepy and questioning.

“Darling!” Mark said excitedly. “I’m at the airport. I finished the job a day early. I couldn’t wait to get home. I’ll catch a taxi and be there in twenty minutes.”

“Oh...” Claire was silent a moment. “I’m so glad, darling. I’ll have some coffee on when you get home. Bye...”

Mark waited in the phone booth twenty minutes, smoking his first cigarette since leaving the airport — how long ago? In another life! He walked the two blocks back to the apartment building. Hugo’s car was gone. Mark retrieved his suitcase from the janitor’s closet under the stairway and took the stairs two at a time, working himself into an appearance of his normal enthusiasm and happiness.

Claire met him at the door with her usual tight little hug and quick kiss, and secret smile.

Only now, Mark too had a secret smile.

It was surprising, Mark discovered, how easy it was to look at Claire and smile, now that he knew what she was and he no longer loved her. The coffee was delicious. He discovered he was hungry. Claire fixed him a tuna salad sandwich on white toast. It reminded him that she had once told him she had worked as a waitress for a year while attending business school. The sandwich had a definite professional touch.

After finishing the sandwich Mark stretched and yawned. “Am I tired!” he exaggerated. He stood up, fished in his pants pocket for a quarter, and dropped it on the table beside his plate.

“What’s that for?” Claire said.

“What?” Mark said. “Oh.” He looked down at the quarter, then smiled at Claire. “Habit. I’m away from home so often. But why shouldn’t wives get tips?” He yawned widely and turned away from the table, leaving the quarter there.

“Thank you, sir,” Claire said as he pushed open the door to the livingroom. Her voice was just a shade too high and too thin.

“Which reminds me,” Mark said, pausing and turning around. “I saw some nice looking bedroom sets in a show window in Chicago this morning. You know, people ought to get new furniture once in a while. I don’t have to go back to the office tomorrow. I think I’ll sleep through the morning.”

“All right, Mark,” Claire said. “I’ll be right with you as soon as I do the dishes.”

“Take your time,” Mark said. “I’m tired. Been a long day. Going to sleep.”

He let the kitchen door swing shut and went to the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. Claire must have really worked during that twenty minutes; making the bed, tidying up, doing the dishes, making sure that Hugo hadn’t left any cigar butts she hadn’t found, and spraying the air. He could smell the faint odor of lilacs from the spray deodorizer.

Mark went to bed. When Claire came in later he pretended to be asleep. He lay on his stomach with his face half buried in the pillow and his cradled arms.

After a few moments the lights went out. Mark steeled himself not to flinch if Claire touched him. She slid into bed without touching him and lay on her side of the bed without moving.

The darkness and silence built up into a loneliness in which he lay, dry eyed. Finally he went to sleep. When he awoke it was morning and he could hear the vacuum cleaner going in the livingroom. He looked at the clock and it was eleven-thirty. He flopped over and sat up, reaching for a cigarette, while last night came back to him.

Last night kicked him in the stomach as it came back, bit by vivid bit. He dragged deeply on the cigarette, letting the fresh smoke bite into his lungs as a counterirritant. Finally he was able to view things with the detachment he had captured last night.

Grinding out his cigarette, he got up and began the automatic routine of showering, brushing his teeth, shaving, combing his hair, and dressing. It was nice not to think for a full ten minutes.

He took a deep breath before opening the bedroom door. Claire was at the front door looking at someone outside in the hall. She turned her head. Her face had aged ten years.

“Mark,” she said, “it’s the police. They want to talk to us.”

“Well, have them come in!” Mark said, “And get me some coffee.” He hurried to the door and took over while Claire escaped to the kitchen.

The two men wore ordinary business suits. “I’m Lt. Jones and he’s Lt. Stevens,” the taller of the two men said, holding up his identification.

“Come on in,” Mark said. “I’m Mark Spencer. What’s happened? A burglary in the building? Do you want some coffee? Claire, bring two more cups.”

Claire was already backing through the kitchen door with a tray. She hurried over and put it down on the coffee table.

“No coffee, please — well, since you’ve brought extra cups. It does smell good,” Lt. Jones said.

“I need my coffee,” Mark said in the silence after the two men had sat down on the davenport and Claire was pouring. “I just got up. Slept late. Uh, what apartment was robbed?”

“No burglary,” Lt. Jones said. “Say, this coffee is good! We just want to ask a few routine questions. You and your wife home last night?”

“She was,” Mark said. “I wasn’t. I got back from Chicago, and called her from the airport to let her know I was home, then caught a taxi straight home from the airport. We were here together for the rest of the night.”

“Is that right?” Lt, Jones said, turning to Claire.

“Why, of course,” she said, “but what’s this all about?”

“What time did your plane arrive, Mr. Spencer?” Jones asked.

“Ten, ten-thirty, I don’t know,” Mark said. “It was flight eight-oh-seven.”

“Remember what kind of a cab you caught?” Jones asked.

Mark identified the company.

“You give him this address?” Jones continued.

“Well, sure!” Mark said.

“Good.” Jones flicked a friendly smile on and off. “We can check you out. Oh yes, one more thing. Did you have any visitors last night, either of you?”

Mark looked boldly at Claire. “Did you have any visitors last night, Claire?” he asked with just the right tone. She shook her head, swallowing loudly. Mark smiled at Lt. Jones and his partner. “No visitors at all,” he said.

“Good,” Jones said. He and Lt. Stevens flashed each other a smile of self-satisfaction. “We’ll be going now.” He emptied his cup and put it down. “Very good coffee, Mrs. Spencer,” he said, standing up.

“What’s it all about?” Mark said, managing to put the sound of genuine curiosity into his voice as he followed them to the door.

“Just a routine check on everyone who might even be remotely connected with a case,” Jones said in the doorway. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

“But what is it?” Mark said.

“Murder,” Lt. Jones said. “You know the man. He works for the same company you do. Hugo Rice.”

“He was murdered?” Claire’s voice sounded in Mark’s ears, raw and jagged.

“No, no,” Lt. Jones said. “He was arrested this morning for killing his wife.” He closed the door.

“Hugo?” Mark said in carefully controlled tones of amazement, staring at the closed door, “... murdered Mildred?” He waited a measured moment, then turned to face Claire.

Claire was putting the cups and saucers onto the tray.

“You never know, do you,” she said carelessly, but there were teeth marks on her knuckles. “Murderers are just something you read about in the papers. Then one day you know one.”

She picked up the tray and went into the kitchen. Mark started to follow her, then changed his mind and sat down on the davenport. What had Claire meant, Then one day you know one? Did she mean him or Hugo? Hugo had obviously tried to get the cops to believe he had been here last night at the time of the murder. The police hadn’t believed him, but had checked it out. Claire had certainly been so upset last night with getting Hugo out of the apartment and straightening things that she actually didn’t know what time he had called her and what time he arrived home. The flight stewardess and the cab driver would alibi him perfectly right to the apartment house. It was all beautiful, beautiful — like a machine in top working order!

Mark lit a cigarette and stretched his legs, letting them come to rest, crossed, on a small stack of magazines on the coffee table. He breathed deeply and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“Claire!” he called, “how about some more coffee?”

“Coming right up, darling!” Claire answered. Her voice sounded cheerful. When she came in with the coffee pot and a clean cup and saucer she even looked cheerful. “You sit right there,” she said after she poured his coffee. “I’ll have your breakfast ready in a minute and serve it in here.”

He stared in unbelief at her back as she returned to the kitchen. She was certainly doing a remarkably good job of concealing her grief!

Too good a job. An uneasy thought came to Mark. Now that Mildred was dead, if Hugo got off he would be free to marry Claire. Maybe the thought had occurred to Claire, too. Momentary panic churned up acid in his stomach. He forced it out of his mind. He had nothing to fear! And he knew it, so his good spirits returned.

Claire brought his breakfast, set it out neatly on the coffee table, then sat on the floor with her elbows on the coffee table and watched him eat. She smiled quickly when he looked at her.

Suddenly it annoyed him.

He sneered at Claire and fished in his pocket, bringing out a half dollar and dropping it on the table.

“Thank you, sir!” Claire said, getting to her feet and putting the half dollar in her housecoat pocket.

His sneer grew more open. He fought down the contempt he felt for Claire. He knew it showed in his eyes. He closed them. He doubled his fists, waiting for her to start shouting at him. Instead...

“I know how you must feel, Mark,” he heard her say. “You admired Mr. Rice and could think no wrong of him. But it came as no surprise to me. He is a selfish, egotistical man. Don’t grieve for him, grieve for his wife.”

Mark opened his eyes and stared unbelievingly at Claire. She must be a superb actress — no, no one could be that good. She was stupid. A moron. He had never realized it before. His contempt was lost on her. It went over her head, just as the insult of the tips did.

“I’m going out,” he said.

“Ail right, Mark,” Claire said.

She started picking up the dishes, putting them on the tray again. A pathetic, moronic waitress! Mark got his suit coat, and slammed the door on his way out of the apartment. What did it take to make her understand he knew?

He walked several blocks fiercely, frustrated. What did it take to put across to Claire that she could stay in his house as a housekeeper for her room and board, as a waitress who served him for tips, as a prostitute who got paid when and if he decided to sample her wares? Probably if he left a twenty dollar bill on the nightstand on her side of the bed she would be stupid enough to think it a special gift to go out and buy a dress with!

Was he going to have to come right out and tell her in black and white the new state of affairs?

Suddenly he stopped walking, his face lighting up with delight. There was someone who didn’t have to have things spelled out for him.

Hugo Rice! He was the someone!

Mark flagged down a cruising cab. On the way to the police department he leaned back and half closed his eyes, smiling with great contentment. He would play the stupid but faithful friend bit while Hugo ranted. Hugo knew who had killed Mildred, and why. Hugo knew he was in a frame he couldn’t escape.

At the police station Mark asked for Lt. Jones, and then told Jones he wanted to visit with Hugo, see if there was anything he could do for his “friend and boss”.

“I don’t see why not,” Lt. Jones said in a kindly tone. “It’s funny how friends desert a person when he’s arrested. You’re the only one who’s come to visit him.”

Mark was taken to a room with bare walls, a table and four chairs. The door closed, and he was alone for almost ten minutes. He spent the time looking for hidden microphones, not finding any, but convinced they were there. No matter what Hugo said, he would have to be careful not to make any incriminating remarks himself.

A smile kept tugging at the corner of Mark’s lips. He was going to enjoy this thoroughly.

Finally the door opened and Hugo strode in, a scowl of anger on his face, his eyes smoldering.

Lt. Jones looked at Mark significantly. “The officer will be just outside the door,” he said.

“Stay and get an earful, Lieutenant,” Hugo snarled. “I’m going to make this ingrate admit he killed my wife.”

“Are you sure you want to go on with this visit, Mr. Spencer?” Jones said. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Yes,” Mark said, “but maybe you’d better stay here. What’s happened to you, Hugo?”

Jones closed the door and took a chair off to one side, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette.

“What’s happened to me?” Hugo asked. “You killed Mildred and framed me for it. You used my gun and put it in my desk at the plant. And I could prove it if this moron detective here would do what I tell him.”

“What’s that?” Mark said.

“Go to your apartment and fingerprint it,” Hugo said. “My fingerprints are all over the place. Fresh fingerprints. I was there last night when you swiped my car, went and killed Mildred, put my gun in my desk at the office, parked the car where it had been, then called to tell your wife you had just arrived at the airport, to get me out of there while the police found my wife’s body on your anonymous phone call.”

A cold chill crept up Mark’s spine. Hugo had put his finger on the one clue that would uncover the truth.

“You’re not being yourself, Hugo,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“Don’t be upset, Mr. Spencer,” Jones said. “I see this happen all the time. A guy is caught and knows it, and he goes nuts, lashing out in every direction for an escape.”

“Well, why don’t you fingerprint Spencer’s apartment and find out?” Hugo demanded.

“I wouldn’t waste my time,” Lt. Jones said.

“Why don’t you?” Mark said. “It might set poor Hugo’s mind at rest.”

“And have your wife landing on me for dusting up her walls and woodwork?” Jones said. “Besides, you have no idea of the work involved, the thousands of fingerprints we’ll find — all belonging to you and your wife. No thanks. Especially not since you invited me to.”

“I’ll get you some way if it’s the last thing I ever do, you stupid moron,” Hugo said to Mark. “To think that I lifted you out of the shop and gave you the job of Special Field Engineer. Why do you suppose I did it? Because you had some special talent? Hell no! I did it because at the plant picnic I made a pass at your wife and she responded. I gave you that job so I could get you out of town for three or four days whenever I wanted to see her.”

“Poor Hugo,” Mark said, shaking his head in mock pity. “How you’ve changed.” He turned to Lt. Jones and asked with mock seriousness, “Can he get off with a plea of insanity? I would say he’s insane. Now he is, at least.”

“I’m surprised you don’t hit him,” Jones said.

Mark looked into Hugo’s eyes and smiled slightly.

“He’s sick, Lieutenant,” Mark said.

The veins in Hugo’s temples stood out and pulsed visibly.

“They don’t hang sick people, do they?” Mark added.

“In this state it’s the gas chamber,” Jones said. “He’s going there.”

“I wish I could do something to help him,” Mark said.

“CONFESS, DAMN YOU!” Hugo shouted. “AFTER ALL I’VE DONE FOR YOU...!”

Mark looked at Lt. Jones and spread his arms in a shrug. Jones went to the door and opened it. The uniformed officer led Hugo away.

“I’m really upset,” Mark said.

“Don’t be,” Jones said. “This is a fairly common thing with people who have been fairly law abiding and then become murderers and get caught. And don’t go suspecting your wife. If what he said was true he would die before he would implicate her. Not only to protect her, but because it’s the most damaging kind of alibi he could dream up. I admit I did check you out, Spencer, and you did come in on that plane and go directly to your apartment in a cab as you said. But I didn’t check you out because I thought you might be guilty. I did it so the D.A. could prevent the defense lawyer from forcing you or your wife to appear in court. No use subjecting either of you to unpleasantness.”

“Thank you,” Mark said. He and the Lieutenant shook hands. Then he was leaving the building, bubbling with happiness inside, a small smile on his lips.

Outside, he hesitated. He had most of the afternoon ahead of him. He didn’t want to go home. Should he check in at the plant? He would have to go home and get his briefcase out of his suitcase so he could turn in his time and expenses on that job in Chicago. He decided against it.

He walked slowly, stopping at store windows and studying the products on display. Some were interesting, some weren’t.

He came to a furniture store. A bedroom display reminded him. He went inside and inspected the twin bed displays. He settled on a bedroom set, a really nice one. Yes, they would be happy to take his old bedroom set in trade and would be fair to him, but he must remember that used mattresses were worth nothing, by the time they were renovated all they could sell for would be the cost of renovation. No, delivery couldn’t possibly be made today. Not for three days. The order would have to go to the warehouse, the crated set have to be brought out to the loading platform, the truck had many other deliveries, it took three days.

Yes, his credit was good, they would take a ten dollar deposit, notify him of the allowance they gave him on the old set, and he could pay the balance in thirty days with no carrying charge, that would be fine.

Mark paid the ten dollars and left the store disappointed. He would be forced to sleep in the same bed with Claire for two more nights. Well, she could keep on her side of the bed. If he wanted her, he would let her know. And pay her. Maybe she would think the twenty bucks was a present to buy a new dress with, but to him it would be for services rendered. Let her go on deluding herself if she wished.

He did more window shopping. He came to a restaurant and decided to have some coffee, maybe a sandwich.

He sat at the counter. The waitress cleared the dishes off and wiped the counter with a damp cloth, leaving wet streaks that slowly dried, off color. Her hair was bleached to straw color with an exaggerated upsweep that was partly unhinged. Her nail polish was flaking off.

She was generous with the coffee. Some of it had splashed into the saucer. There was a nick in the cup so that he had to turn it around and not use the handle, to avoid the nick. He decided against a sandwich.

The waitress’ panty girdle, outlined by her tight white uniform skirt, was bunched at the waist. The coffee tasted bad. Stale.

Suddenly lonely, Mark left a quarter on the counter and walked out.

He stood on the sidewalk, depressed. He glanced at his watch. It was only three o’clock — a couple of minutes after. A taxi was coming down the street. On impulse he stepped out into the street and stopped it. He gave the driver the address of the plant, and settled back.

Maybe they would have something waiting for him so he could get out of town again for a couple of days until the twin beds were delivered. Yeah! Maybe they would! He was glad he had decided to go to the plant.

Gertrude, the receptionist, welcomed him with a bright smile that quickly clouded. “Have you heard the news, Mark?” she said.

“I’ve heard,” Mark said, going past her to his own private cubicle. He looked eagerly at his in-basket. It was empty.

He sat down at the desk, and the phone rang. He scooped up the receiver and said, “Spencer...”

“Mark?” It was Gertrude. “I forgot to tell you. Mr. McHale wanted to see you as soon as you came in. He’s in his office now. He could see you.”

“Oh?” Mark said. “See if it’s okay. I’ll go right in.”

It hadn’t occurred to Mark. With Hugo out of the picture there was a vacancy in the Upper Echelons! It would have to be filled immediately, of course.

He took the small mirror out of the top desk drawer and inspected himself, straightening his tie and picking a fleck off his shoulder.

The phone rang again. It was Gertrude. “He’ll see you immediately,” she said.

McHale was the president. He sat behind an acre of gleaming mahogany desk, yet seemed to dominate it like a mountain top. A freshly lit, expensive cigar was in his mouth, sending blue smoke streamers out over the room. He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed with it to a chair.

“Sit down, Spencer,” the president said.

“Yes, sir,” Mark said. He dipped into the chair, and sat with bright expectancy.

“Too bad about Hugo,” McHale said, scowling, putting his cigar back in his mouth and puffing swiftly to bring it to life.

“Yes, it is,” Mark said. “He’s a fine man. He... he’s probably innocent — wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s through.” McHale said it with finality. “He’s been a problem all along. We held an emergency Board Meeting at noon. Hugo’s out.” The president of the company scowled, looking past Mark to distant, important horizons of his highly skilled executive mind. Mark experienced a sense of awe. It would be wonderful working for this man...

“Now about you...” the president said.

“Yes?” Mark said eagerly.

“I never could understand why Hugo took you out of the shop,” McHale said. “He knows our company policy. I have to be fair, though. I got out your record. I’ve been studying it.” He opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a file folder, thick with papers. He put it on the desk top, closed the center drawer, then waved vaguely at the folder with his cigar.

“Do you know what this record shows?” he said.

“No, sir,” Mark said, suppressing his eagerness.

“It shows that company policy Is right,” McHale said. “You are a good machinist. But in the field? You make repairs. You don’t make suggestions for improvements. You don’t have a college mind. Oh, Hugo’s been covering for you; but the fact remains that it takes a college man in the field, not a repairman. You don’t have the technical know-how to suggest changes in design.”

Mark was silent, ice forming in his blood.

“I just don’t know why Hugo promoted you out of the shop,” McHale said. “But I have to be fair to you. You can’t keep your present job. In fact, we don’t need a special field engineer, we have resident engineers all over the country to handle breakdown problems and suggest changes in design. But you’re a good company man. I don’t see how I can just send you back to a lathe. It’s a problem. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make a job for you as swing shift efficiency expert — until a lead man job opens up. It will be quite a salary cut, but no one needs to know about that but the payroll department. They have to know, of course. Or, if you’d rather look for another job, I’ll see that you get the highest recommendation. Go for the top. If you can handle the job I won’t hinder you with another company.”

Stunned, Mark remained like a statue. Once, his face muscles cramped visibly. Slowly his eyes went dead.

McHale looked at the ceiling, puffing furiously on his cigar, and waited. “Maybe you’d like to think it over,” he said abruptly. “Take a couple of weeks vacation and think about it. You have it coming. If you don’t, I’ll clear it. At your present salary, too!”

“No!” Mark said, his voice harsh. He took a deep breath. “That is, I’ll take the vacation at my present salary. Why not?” His grin was twisted, apologetic. “But I’ll take the job. It is a promotion — from what I was, isn’t it...”

“That’s the spirit,” McHale said, obviously relieved. “And you can be sure I’ll keep my eye on you.” He came around his desk and shook hands with Mark. “A man with your field experience should make a good shop foreman, once he gets a few years of management experience in his background.”

He pushed Mark toward the door, shaking his hand enthusiastically, puffing blue smoke from his rich cigar.

Mark smiled brightly at Gertrude on his way back to his cubicle. With his door closed, he sat down at his desk. He looked at his name, shadowed in reverse on the frosted glass of his closed door. And a slow flush built up on his face.

Claire had bought him this cubicle with his name on the door. The whole, simple truth had come home to Mark at last. Her relief which she couldn’t conceal when she learned Hugo had been arrested and she would no longer have to keep paying.

“You admired Air. Rice and could thin\ no wrong of him,” Claire had said, “but it came as no surprise to me. He is a selfish egotistical man. Don’t grieve for him, grieve for his wife.”

And Air. McHale, frowning, “I JUST DON’T KNOW why Hugo promoted you out of the shop...”

And Hugo’s hate curved lips, saying, “Why do you suppose I lifted you out of the shop? Because you had some very special talent?”

Suddenly Mark’s lips began to tremble. Tears streamed from his eyes. Then his head was cradled in his arms on the desk while he sobbed openly, shaking with the torment that possessed him, the grief he could never share, the thing he could never let Claire know he knew.

He became quiet. Finally he lifted his head. He took out a cigarette and lit it, staring unseeingly at the surface of his desk.

He fished in his side coat pocket and brought out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and flattened it on the desk. He studied it, then reached for the phone.

“Outside, Gertrude,” he said in a quiet, subdued voice.

He read the phone number off the slip of paper as he dialed it.

“I would like to speak to Mr. Rosen,” he said.

There was quite a wait.

“Mr. Rosen?” Mark Spencer said. “I was in earlier this afternoon and ordered a bedroom set with twin beds. Remember? I’m calling to cancel the order.”