Hit Them Where it Hurts

One

My name is Dirk Wallace: unmarried, pushing 40 years of age, tall, dark, with a face that, so far, doesn’t frighten the kiddies. I am one of the twenty operators working for the Acme Detective Agency which is housed on the top floor of the Trueman Building, Paradise Avenue, Paradise City, Florida.

The Acme Detective Agency is the most expensive and best agency on the east coast of the USA. Founded by Colonel Victor Parnell, a Vietnam war veteran, some six years ago, the agency had prospered. Parnell had been smart enough to realise that sooner or later many of the billionaires living in Paradise City would soon need the services of a top class detective agency. The agency specialised in divorce, parents’ problems, blackmail, extortion, hotel swindles, husband and wife watching, and pretty near everything short of mayhem and murder.

The twenty operators, most of us ex-cops or ex-military police, work in pairs. Each pair has an office, and unless there is an emergency, the operators know nothing about the work done by their colleagues. This system is to prevent leaks to the press. Should there be a leak, and it happened once, both operators working on the case are given the gate.

Having worked for the agency for the past eighteen months I had been promoted and given an office of my own, but my assistant, ex-Deputy Sheriff Bill Anderson, also had a desk in my office.

Bill Anderson was pint-sized, but he had plenty of muscle and beef around his shoulders. He had been a big help to me sorting out a tricky case when I had been sent to Searle to find a missing youngster. Then he had been deputy sheriff and was longing to join the agency. Because of his help I cracked the case and in return I got him into the agency.

In every way Bill Anderson proved invaluable to me. He didn’t care what hours he worked, and in this racket this is important. He was top class at ferreting out information I needed, saving me dreary hours of research. When we weren’t working, he explored the city, and became an expert on restaurants, nightclubs, and the lower strata of the waterfront. The toughs, to their cost, ignored him because of his size. Tiny as he is, his punch would knock over an elephant.

This morning in July we were sitting in my office, waiting for action. It was raining and humid. Only the elderly residents remained in the city: the rich visitors and the tourists waited until September.

Anderson, chewing gum, was writing a letter home. With my feet on my desk, I was thinking of Suzy. She and I had met some six months ago, and we had liked each other on sight.

Suzy Long was a receptionist at the Bellevue Hotel. I had made an enquiry about a creep, staying there, who was a suspected blackmailer. Once I had explained the set-up to Suzy, she was helpful and I got enough evidence to pass to the cops, and the creep got five years in the slammer.

Suzy had long, glossy brown hair with a hint of red in her tresses, grey eyes and a lively, almost mischievous smile. She was built the way I liked girls to be built: full-breasted, tiny waist, voluptuous hips and long legs. We got together, and now had a standing date for dinner at a modest seafood restaurant every Wednesday night when she had a night off from the hotel. After eating, we went back to her tiny apartment and rolled together on her rather too small bed. This went on for three months or so, then we both realised we were really in love with each other. During my life as an operator I had had a score of women, but now Suzy meant more to me than any other woman. I suggested it could be an idea for us to get married. She had given her mischievous smile, shaking her head. ‘Not yet, Dirk,’ she had said. ‘I like the idea, but I have a good, well paid job, and if I married you I would have to give it up. Your hours of work and mine just don’t jell. Not yet, my love, but later.’

I had to be content with that, so, today being Wednesday, I was thinking of the fun she and I would have tonight, when my intercom buzzed.

I turned the switch down and said, ‘Wallace.’

‘Will you come to my office, please?’ I recognised Glenda Kerry’s harsh voice.

Glenda Kerry was the colonel’s secretary and right hand. Tall, good-looking, dark, she was alarmingly efficient. When she said, ‘Come,’ you went.

I walked fast down the long corridor to her office. The colonel was away in Washington. Glenda was in charge. I tapped on her door, entered to find her at her desk, looking immaculate in white blouse and black shirt.

‘An assignment has come in,’ she said as I sat down, facing her. ‘Mrs Henry Thorsen telephoned. She wants an operator to call on her at twelve this morning when she will explain her requirements. She asked for an intelligent, decently dressed man.’

‘So you immediately thought of me,’ I said.

‘I thought of you because all operators except you have cases,’ Glenda said curtly. ‘Does the name Henry Thorsen mean anything to you?’

I shrugged

‘Can’t say it does. Is he important?’

Glenda sighed.

‘He is dead. Mrs Thorsen has been a widow for a year. She is extremely wealthy and has a lot of clout. Handle her with kid gloves. All I can tell you is she’s difficult. Go, find out what she wants.’ She pushed a slip of paper across her desk. ‘That’s her address. Be there at twelve sharp. We can use some of the Thorsen money, so go along with her.’

‘I just call on her, listen, say amen to everything. Right?’

Glenda nodded.

‘That’s it. Then report to me.’

Her telephone began to ring, so I picked up the slip of paper and returned to my office.

‘We have a job, Bill,’ I said. ‘Mrs Henry Thorsen wants an operator. I want you to go to the Herald’s morgue and dig out all you can about the Thorsens. I’m seeing the old trout at twelve. We’ll meet here around four o’clock. Have information for me.’

Bill bounced out of his chair. This was the kind of job he liked.

‘See you,’ he said, and took off.

I arrived at the Thorsens’ residence three minutes before twelve.

The imposing-looking house was set in two acres of woodland and lawns with a drive up to a tarmac for parking. It was one of the few houses that really had seclusion.

The house looked as if it had at least fifteen bedrooms and spacious living rooms with terraces.

I climbed steps to the front entrance with double doors and a hanging chain bell which I tugged.

I had a five-minute wait before one of the doors opened cautiously, and I was confronted by a tall black man wearing a white coat, a black bow tie and black trousers. He was at a guess close on seventy years of age. His woolly white hair was receding.

I saw by his bloodshot eyes and the sagging muscles of his face that he was a bottle-hitter. I haven’t been a private eye for more than twenty years without recognising the signs.

‘Dirk Wallace,’ I said. ‘Mrs Thorsen is expecting me. The Acme Detective Agency.’

He inclined his head in agreement and stood aside.

‘This way, sir,’ he said, and with an attempt at dignity, but with lurching steps, he led me through a big lobby and to a door which he opened. ‘Madam will be here soon,’ he said, and waved me into a vast room furnished with antiques and some massive pictures, and with as much comfort as a waiting room in a railroad station.

I moved to the big window and regarded the vast stretch of closely cut lawn and the trees and in the distance the grey, sullen, rain swollen clouds.

I wondered how long this drunken butler would take to tell Mrs Thorsen I had arrived.

It took twenty-five minutes by my watch. By that time I had sized up the oil paintings, priced the antique furniture and become generally bored. Then the door opened and Mrs Henry Thorsen swept in.

I had expected to see a fat, overdressed, elderly woman, the likes of whom you see everywhere in the city.

Mrs Henry Thorsen was tall, slim, and self-conscious with steel-grey hair, a rather kind face with good features, and piercing grey eyes which matched her immaculate hairdo.

She regarded me as she closed the door. No smile. A lift of plucked eyebrows, the eyes going over me with a scrutiny that made me feel I had left my zipper undone.

‘Mr Wallace?’ Her voice was harsh and cold.

‘That’s correct,’ I said.

She waved to a chair.

‘Sit down. This need not keep me long.’

The atmosphere was every bit as warm and friendly as a funeral.

Glenda had warned me to treat this woman with kid gloves, so, with a little bow; I took the hellishly uncomfortable chair she had indicated.

Then she proceeded to move around the room, adjusting one expensive looking knick-knack after another. From behind, she had a figure of a woman half her age. I guessed she was around 56, maybe more, but she had certainly taken care of her body.

I waited. I am good at waiting. Waiting is part of an operator’s business.

She had reached the far end of the room, turned and paused, and again regarded me. I met her steady scrutiny with one of my own.

Although we were now some thirty feet apart, her cold, harsh voice reached me.

‘I have been told your agency is the best on the east coast,’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t be working for it if it wasn’t, Mrs Thorsen,’ I said.

She began to walk towards me. Her movements flowed like gentle water.

‘Then I suppose, Mr Wallace, you consider yourself a good operator.’

The sneer in her voice irritated me.

‘No I don’t consider myself a good operator,’ I said, an edge to my voice. ‘I am a good operator.’

She was now within six feet of me. She again stared thoughtfully at me, then nodded and sat down on one of the God-awful antique chairs that could give you a twisted spine and certainly corns on your ass.

‘I have reason to believe that my daughter is being blackmailed,’ she said, folding her long-fingered hands in her lap. ‘I understand you people are good with cases of blackmail.’

‘None better, Mrs Thorsen,’ I said, my face and voice deadpan.

‘I want you to find out why my daughter is being blackmailed and who the blackmailer is.’

‘With your cooperation, this should be no problem,’ I said. ‘Will you tell me what reasons you have to think your daughter is being blackmailed?’

‘My daughter is drawing ten thousand dollars a month in cash from her account. This has become a regular withdrawal for the past ten months.’ She frowned down at her hands. ‘Mr Ackland has become worried, and was good enough to alert me.’

‘Mr Ackland?’

‘He is the family’s banker: the Pacific & National. He and my late husband were very close friends.’

‘Your daughter has an income of her own and her own account?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. My late husband was fond of Angela, our daughter. He left her a large sum of money in trust. The monthly income from this trust is fifteen thousand. This is, of course, an absurd amount of money for a girl of her age.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought it abnormal for a girl of 24, with an income of fifteen thousand a month, to spend ten thousand a month, but you will be able to enlighten me.’

‘It is certainly abnormal,’ Mrs Thorsen said sharply. ‘I must tell you that Angela is not a normal girl. Unfortunately, she was a measles-baby.’ She paused to stare at me with those probing grey eyes. ‘You understand?’

‘Sure. It happens. The mother, when pregnant, catches measles, and it affects the baby.’

‘Exactly. Angela is greatly retarded. She had to have a tutor, but even then, she has scarcely any education. It wasn’t until she was twenty years of age that she showed signs of growing up. My husband made this absurd provision for her. For the first two months she showed no interest in the monthly income, then she began drawing these big sums every month. Mr Ackland, who is a dear friend of mine, became uneasy, and only last week he decided to consult me. He suggested to me that Angela was being blackmailed. He is very astute. I rely on him.’

‘To get the record straight, Mrs Thorsen, I understand Mr Thorsen died twelve months ago. Your daughter then came into this income, and has been drawing ten thousand dollars a month for the past ten months. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘But for the first two months she didn’t use the money?’

‘According to Mr Ackland she spent two thousand a month to keep herself and pay the black woman who looks after her.’

‘Your daughter lives with you?’

Mrs Thorsen stiffened.

‘Certainly not! We are not close. As well as this absurd trust, my husband left her a cottage at the far end of the estate. She lives there with a black woman who does all the housework and provides meals. I haven’t seen Angela for some weeks. She wouldn’t mix with my social circle. Unfortunately, she is not attractive. She is a hopeless conversationalist.’

‘Does she have friends of her own?’

‘I have no idea. She lives her life, I live mine.’

‘Would there be boyfriends? Maybe a special boyfriend?’

Mrs Thorsen looked sour.

‘Most unlikely. I can’t imagine any decent boy being interested in Angela. As I have said, she is unattractive.’

‘But she is rich, Mrs Thorsen,’ I pointed out. ‘Lots of men can put up with unattractive girls if they have money.’

‘Both Mr Ackland and I have thought of that. That is for you to find out.’

‘That I can certainly do,’ I said. ‘I would like to know a little more about your daughter. Have you any idea how she passes her time: does she swim, play tennis, go dancing?’

Mrs Thorsen shrugged impatiently.

‘I wouldn’t know. As I told you we seldom meet.’

I began to dislike this woman: as a mother she wouldn’t get my nomination for an Oscar.

‘She is the only child?’

Mrs Thorsen stiffened, and her eyes flashed.

‘I had a son, but we need not discuss him. All it is necessary to say about him is that he left home some time ago. I am glad to say I haven’t seen him nor heard from him since he left. He certainly doesn’t come into this problem I have with Angela.’

‘Would you have any objection to my seeing Mr Ackland?’

‘None at all. Mr Ackland has my complete confidence. In fact, it was he who suggested I should seek your help. See him by all means.’

‘How about your daughter? I would have to see her.’

‘Yes. Tomorrow is the first of the month. She is certain to go to the bank. Mr Ackland will arrange for you to see her, but on no account are you to approach her or speak to her. I don’t want Angela to know that she is being investigated, nor do I want anyone, except Mr Ackland, to know either. I understand your agency is most discreet.’

‘You can be sure of that, Mrs Thorsen.’ I got to my feet. ‘I will see Mr Ackland this afternoon. When I have something to tell you, I will contact you.’

‘I trust you won’t take long. I find your charges excessive.’

‘We have a lot of work on hand, Mrs Thorsen. You can be sure we will be as quick as we can to give you the information you want.’

‘When you have this information, kindly telephone for an appointment. I lead a very busy life.’ She waved to the door. ‘Will you see yourself out? Smedley, my butler, is a drunkard, and I disturb him as little as possible.’

‘Are you thinking of getting rid of him, Mrs Thorsen?’ I asked at the door.

She lifted her eyebrows and gave me a cold stare.

‘Smedley has been with the family for over thirty years. He knows my habits, and is good with the silver. He also amuses my friends. Until his condition worsens, I will keep him. Good day, Mr Wallace.’

I let myself out of the silent house, closing the front door behind me, then ran through the steady rain to my car.

After a hamburger lunch, I drove to the Pacific & National Bank, arriving there at 15.00.

The bank couldn’t be faulted. It looked rich: it had two alert-looking security guards, the tellers were behind bulletproof glass. There were vases of flowers and a heavy pile carpet. The air conditioner hummed softly.

Under the cold scrutiny of the two guards, I crossed to a desk which carried a banner: RECEPTION. Sitting behind the desk was an elderly, prune-faced woman who regarded me without enthusiasm. I could see by her expression that she had been trained to smell money, and there was no smell of money coming from me.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Ackland,’ I said.

‘Have you an appointment?’

I took from my wallet one of my professional cards and laid it before her.

‘Give him this and he’ll see me.’

The woman regarded the card, then stared at me.

‘Mr Ackland is busy. What is your business?’

‘If you are that curious,’ I said, ‘telephone Mrs Henry Thorsen who will explain everything to you, but, on the other hand, she might make your future life disagreeable.’ I gave her my wide friendly smile. ‘Take a chance: telephone her.’

Mrs Henry Thorsen’s name appeared to ring an alarm bell in her mind. She picked up my card, got to her feet and walked away, her head held high, her back rigid.

One of the security guards moved a little closer. I winked at him, and he immediately shifted his stare, fingered the butt of his gun, then moved away.

Minutes ticked by while I watched the elderly rich pay in money, draw out money, and talk to the tellers who gushed, bowed and did everything servile except stand on their heads.

Prune-face returned.

‘Mr Ackland will see you.’ Her voice was frosty enough to put the air conditioner on the blink. ‘Over there. First door on your right.’

‘Thanks,’ I said and, leaving her, took her directions to come up before a polished oak door with: Horace Ackland. General Manager printed in large gold lettering: an impressive sight. I rapped, turned the glittering brass door handle and entered an imposing office with lounging chairs, a settee, a cocktail cabinet, and a desk large enough to play snooker on.

Behind this desk sat Horace Ackland. He rose to his feet as I entered and closed the door. He was fat, short, balding and benign-looking, but there was nothing benign in his alert, brown eyes. He regarded me with a stare that could compete with a laser ray, then waved me to a chair.

‘Mrs Thorsen told me you would be calling, Mr Wallace,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly deep. ‘You will have some questions to ask.’

I settled myself in the comfortable chair, facing his desk while he lowered his bulk back into his chair.

‘Would you give me your opinion about the daughter, Mr Ackland? Her mother says she is retarded. What do you think?’

‘Frankly, I don’t know. It would seem she has grown out of her handicap.’ Ackland paused, then went on. ‘She appears to be normal, but then I only see her for a few minutes when she picks up this money. She dresses oddly, but so do most young people. I wouldn’t care to give you an opinion.’

‘I understand there is a trust and she can only touch the income, which is fifteen thousand a month. What happens in the event that the daughter dies?’

His eyebrows lifted.

‘She is only 24, Mr Wallace.’

‘You can die by accident at any age.’

‘If she dies, the trust ceases to exist, and the money goes back to the estate.’

‘How much money?’

‘Mr Thorsen was one of the richest men in the world. I couldn’t possibly tell you how much money.’

‘Mrs Thorsen has inherited his money, and at the death of her daughter, she will come into more money?’

‘Yes. There are no other heirs.’

‘There is a son.’

Ackland grimaced.

‘Yes. Terrance Thorsen. He was disinherited when he left the Thorsen residence two years ago. He has no claim on the estate.’

‘No one else?’

Ackland moved in his chair as if my questions were beginning to bore him.

‘A number of bequests. Mr Thorsen left money to his butler, Smedley. The will provided Smedley with an immediate payment of five thousand dollars at Mr Thorsen’s death.’

‘You think, Mr Ackland, that these monthly withdrawals of ten thousand a month point to blackmail?’

Ackland placed his fingertips together, making an arch. He looked suddenly like a bishop.

‘Mr Wallace, I have had thirty-five years in banking. Miss Thorsen is 24 years of age and appears, anyway to me, normal. She has the right to do what she likes with her money. But Henry Thorsen and I were very close friends, and trusted each other, and I gave him my promise that if anything should happen to him, I would keep a close eye on Angela when she inherited this fortune. Also, Mrs Thorsen is now a dear friend of mine and relies on me for financial advice, and for help in any problems which might arise. But for these special circumstances I would not have told her about these odd withdrawals. I hesitated, I admit, as it was not entirely ethical for me to tell her what Angela was doing. I held back for ten months, but as these withdrawals continued, I felt it my duty to these old friends to alert Mrs Thorsen and advise her that this possibility of blackmail should be investigated.’

‘I see your point, Mr Ackland.’

‘What I have told you is in strict confidence. That is understood?’

‘Of course. Now, Mr Ackland, I need to know Miss Thorsen by sight. Her mother told me on no account should I approach the girl. How do I see her?’

‘Nothing easier. Tomorrow, she will arrive here to collect the money. I will arrange that you see her enter my office and leave. Then it is up to you.’

‘That’s fine. What time should I be here?’

‘She always comes at ten o’clock. I suggest you come here at 9.45, and wait in the lobby. I will tell Miss Kertch to give you a signal when she arrives.’

A soft buzzer sounded on his desk. He lost his benign expression and looked what I knew he must be, a shrewd, tough banker.

He picked up the receiver, nodded, then said, ‘In three minutes, Miss Kertch.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wallace, I can give you no further time. If there is anything...’

I got to my feet.

‘Maybe I’ll need to talk to you again, Mr Ackland. I won’t hold you up. I’ll be here at 9.45 tomorrow.’

‘Do that.’ He rose to his feet and offered a firm but damp hand. ‘I am sure you will be able to unravel this little problem. I have heard great things about your agency.’

Tomorrow morning should be interesting, I thought, as I got in my car. I itched to set eyes on Angela Thorsen.

Glenda Kerry heard me out, making occasional notes, as I gave her my report.

‘Mrs Thorsen wants this wrapped up fast,’ I concluded. ‘She thinks our charges are excessive.’

‘They all do, but they still come to us,’ Glenda said with a wintry smile. ‘What’s your next move?’

‘Go to the bank, tail Angela, see where she delivers the money, and with luck, get the general photo. I’ve got Bill digging into Thorsen’s background.’

She nodded.

‘OK. Go to it,’ and reached for the telephone.

I found Bill at his typewriter and gave him a blow-by-blow account of my interview with Mrs Thorsen, and also with Horace Ackland.

‘That’s it so far,’ I concluded. ‘What puzzles me is why Mrs Thorsen, who couldn’t care less about her daughter, who in turn couldn’t care less about her, should spend good money hiring us to find out if her daughter is being blackmailed. Why? That’s what I need to know. There’s a smell about this that bothers me.’

‘Is that our funeral, Dirk?’ Bill asked. ‘We have been hired to find out if and why the girl is being blackmailed. The why and the wherefore of Mrs Thorsen’s motives don’t concern us.’

‘I think it could make this case very interesting. I can’t wait to see Angela. We have to play this smooth, Bill. I’ll go to the bank, wait for Ackland’s signal. You will wait outside. I’ll give the high sign, and you follow her from in front. We’ll both have cars. She is certain to be on wheels. We mustn’t lose her. She could lead us to the blackmailer.’

‘OK, Dirk. Could be that easy.’

‘Now, give me your report.’

‘This could also be interesting. I spent the morning going through the Herald’s clippings on Thorsen. Make no mistake about this, Thorsen was a big wheel. He was the senior partner of Thorsen & Charteris, the top stockbrokers in this city. They have a branch in New York, but their main business is with the super-rich in this city. Thorsen had a magic touch to pick the right stock or bond, when to buy and when to sell. He not only did big deals for his clients, but also for himself.

‘At the age of 35, already established as an up-and-coming broker, he married Kathleen Livingston whose father was Joe Livingston. Joe dabbled in oil, and just after the wedding, went bust on three dry wells. It was a lucky break for Kathleen to have hooked Thorsen as her family soon weren’t worth a dime. There were two children. Terrance and Angela. The clippings have nothing of interest to say about them, but plenty to say of the way Mrs Thorsen entertained and spent her husband’s money. She is regarded even now as one of the big social hostesses. People flock to her parties and generally scrounge on her.

‘Last year, at the age of 62, Thorsen was found dead in his library. He had a long history of heart attacks for which his doctor had treated him for some ten years. He had always lived at high pressure, making and nursing fortunes for himself and for some very influential folk in this city. It was no surprise to Mrs Thorsen or his doctor, and the death certificate was clear. Only thing the coroner, Herbert Dawson, showed interest in was how the deceased had managed to get a nasty wound on the temple, but the medical view was quite emphatic that this happened after his heart attack, when he fell and hit his head on a corner of his desk. His butler, long-serving Josh Smedley, testified that he heard a noise like a heavy fall, and hurried in, to find his master dead. He tested the breathing with a hand mirror from the desk. Death from natural causes, and sympathy for widow and family from Coroner Herbert Dawson, who it seems is a very good friend of Mrs Thorsen’s. She comes in to the money, to boost her entertaining funds, Miss Angela gets a trust fund, Mr Terrance gets nothing.’

‘Good enough, Bill,’ I said. ‘It’s interesting.’ I thought, then took my feet off my desk. ‘As you say, it’s not our business to do anything except find out if Angela is being blackmailed. All the same, I am interested in the Thorsens’ background. I wonder about the son, Terrance. I wonder also about the drunken butler. Well, let’s make a start and open a file. You know the colonel. When he returns he’ll want all the dope.’

‘I guess.’ Bill sighed and pulled his typewriter towards him.

It was close on 18.30 by the time we had finished and my mind was now turning to Suzy Long. This was the night when we always met at the Lobster & Crab restaurant, on the beach, among dozens of other such restaurants, but this one was reasonable in price, and the owner, Freddy Cortel, knew more about lobsters and crabs than the fishermen who caught them.

‘What are you doing tonight, Bill?’ I asked as I cleared my desk.

He shrugged.

‘I guess I’ll go back to my pad, heat up a quick-dinner mess, then watch the box until bedtime.’

Feeling a little smug, I shook my head.

‘That’s not the way to live, Bill. You should find yourself a nice, willing girl as I have.’

He grinned.

‘Think of the money I save. Suits me. See you, Dirk,’ and with a wave of his hand he took off.

I drove to my two-room apartment just on the fringe of Seacomb which is the slum district where the workers live. I parked my car and climbed up four floors in a creaking elevator to my home.

When I had first arrived in Paradise City, I found this furnished apartment going cheap, and decided it was good enough, although rather a dismal affair.

The walls were painted dark brown; the furniture was shabby and uncomfortable. The bed creaked and the mattress had lumps.

I had told myself that I wouldn’t be spending much time in the place, and as the rent was so low it made sense to take it.

All that changed when Suzy insisted on visiting me. She had taken one horrified look around and exclaimed, ‘You can’t live in a hole like this!’

I told her about the rent and she was duly impressed.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Leave this to me.’

Within a week, while I stayed with Bill in his tiny pad, with the aid of two of the Bellevue Hotel painters, plus furniture from the hotel storeroom at a giveaway price, Suzy converted my home into something lush. I loved it! Suzy purred every time she came in.

As you enter the apartment, you are faced with a large blank wall. Neither of us had as yet decided what to do with this wall. I thought of bookshelves, but Suzy was all for finding a good copy of a modern painting. We spent much agreeable time arguing about this, and I was getting the feeling she was going to get her way.

As I entered the apartment, I was no longer confronted by the blank wall.

Instead, scrawled in aerosol black paint in six-inch letters was the message:

He must have been waiting for me behind the front door. He was quick and very expert.

I just heard the swish of a descending sap, then saw flashes of light, then there was a complete blackout.