I had brought the hunting knife to work with me in my briefcase that morning—a gleaming deadly tooth, sharp and silent. Already I could see it plunging into the startled Harrison’s throat.

He said he’d be waiting at his place the entire day of the deadline. Well, I’d have a little surprise for him, I thought.

The day dragged interminably, and I spent most of it shuttling between the water-cooler and the men’s room. At last five o’clock came. I packed up and left, ignoring someone’s offer to ride to the station.

I went downstairs and had a hamburger. It was dry and tasteless, or maybe that was just the way my throat felt. I caught the BMT and took it downtown to the address Harrison had given me.

It was an old apartment building, way over on the lower east side, in a neighborhood that had been shabby fifty years ago and wasn’t improved much today. I checked the number on the house against the note I had scribbled, making sure it was the right one. My heart kept trying to thump up into my mouth.

My mind wandered back and picked up the image of Peggy, alive and naked and desirable in the rowboat. I had killed her calmly, casually, without a moment’s nervousness. I could see her body turning over and over, drifting slowly down to its grave.

But this was different. Funny; second time should have been a lot easier. But it wasn’t.

There was no elevator. Harrison was in apartment 6-A, and I walked up the filthy stairs to the sixth floor, prowled around the dark, dank-smelling landing for a while, and found the right door. I looked around. No one in sight anywhere. I took the hunting knife from my briefcase, gripped it tightly, and knocked.

I waited for Harrison to open the door. I wondered if he was a short man or a tall one—I didn’t know where to aim my thrust. But there was no answer.

“Harrison?” I knocked again. “It’s me. Foster.”

Still no answer.

“Hey, wake up! I’ve got something you want, Harrison!”

I pounded on the door again, but without getting any response. Maybe he went out for supper, I thought. I eyed the door. It was old and feeble looking. Suppose I broke it down, I thought. Suppose I got inside there and found the little package and destroyed it—or else just waited for Harrison to come back.

I put my shoulder to the door and heaved—once, twice. On the third heave the hinges groaned and gave way with a dry splitting sound, and I found myself inside.

There was no one there.

There hadn’t been anyone there for a couple of days.

The place had been cleaned out. The dresser drawers hung open, the closet was empty, the bed unmade. A shockwave ran over me. What the hell—