Kill as Directed

Sixteen

It was a two-story red brick on a nice street in Yonkers, chiefly residential. There were shade trees over the sidewalks, and neat houses with green lawns, and some stores: a supermarket, a laundry, a beauty parlor, a drugstore, a florist’s, and the funeral parlor. He drove past slowly and backed into a space at the curb a hundred feet away. Before he got out of the car he touched the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket.

He walked back without haste along the sunny street to the brick building. It had a gray marble front and wide glass doors. He pushed through the doors and found himself in a cool room with a soft gray carpet, a long gray table, gray chairs and benches, and some potted palms. At the far end of the room a blond young man sat at a small gray desk. The blond young man rose at once and came forward. He said softly, “Sir?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith.”

“What name, sir?”

“My name?”

“Please, sir.”

Harry said, “Smith.”

The young man smiled, exhibiting lively white teeth.

“You have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“Please sit down, won’t you?”

The young man walked sedately to the end of the room... through two glass doors similar to those at the entrance, but narrower. Harry remained standing.

The young man returned in thirty seconds.

“This way, sir.”

Harry followed him through the narrow glass doors and along a windowless corridor to an office also furnished in gray: gray carpet, gray leather armchairs, gray steel desk, gray Venetian blinds tightly closed.

“Come in, sir.” A thin man with a long wrinkled face and sparse black hair rose from behind the steel desk. His hair was obviously a toupee. His rather high voice was, to Harry’s surprise, that of a cultivated man. He wore an expensive black suit and a black tie with a gray pearl stickpin. “All right, Adam.”

The blond young man went out, shutting the door.

“I’m Franklin Gregory Archibald Smith,” the mortician said. “Please sit down — Mr. Smith, did you say?”

“Harry Smith,” said Harry Brown.

The thin man smiled and gestured to the armchair beside the desk.

Harry sat. The tall man sat.

“Common name,” the tall man remarked.

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Mr. Smith. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

“I’m here on an errand.”

“Errand?”

“For Uncle Joe.”

“Joe?”

“Uncle Joe from San Francisco.”

“Oh, yes?” said the thin mortician. He waited.

“I’m to pick up the ashes of Uncle Joe’s brother Benny. Benjamin A. Smith?”

“Oh, yes?” said the mortician again. He still did not move.

“Oh,” said Harry. He took the envelope out of his pocket. “Here’s the money Uncle Joe owes you.”

This time the man moved. He extended a bony hand for the envelope, opened it, took out the bills, and counted them. He returned the money to the envelope, unlocked a drawer of the steel desk, dropped the envelope into the drawer, locked the drawer and pocketed the key. Then he rose.

He said in his high voice, “Wait here, please,” and left the room. He had a long gliding stride that made him look as if he were walking on tiptoe.

Harry sat. The room was cool. He stirred uneasily.

Was it a swindle? Why not? Smith could give him an urn containing ashes, and what could he do about it? Go to the police? The thought made him laugh, and he felt better.

The man returned with an oblong package. It was wrapped in ordinary wrapping paper, seams secured by wide strips of gummed tape, and bound with heavy cord.

“Here it is,” said the mortician. He handed the package to Harry. “I’m to remind you that it’s to be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“A good deep place is best for its last resting place. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Harry. The hell I will, he thought.

“Well, good luck, Mr. Smith.”

“Thank you,” said Harry.

The tall man shut the door on him immediately.

The blond young man was back at his desk.

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye,” said Harry.

He pushed through the glass doors into the heat of the street. The package, not heavy, was heavy. He did not hold it by the cord. He held it in the crook of his arm tightly. At the car, he put it carefully into the trunk. He did not dare open it. His clothes were pasted to his body. He removed his jacket, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He got into the car and drove off.

He did not speed. He did not attempt to beat any lights. He kept strictly to the right, gave hand signals on every turn. It took him a long time to get back to his office. He had told his receptionist he would be back by two. It was almost two-thirty before he got there.

The package weighed heavily in the crook of his arm as he let himself in through his street door.

He almost dropped it. There was someone waiting for him in the waiting room.

Not a patient.

Lieutenant Galivan.