Funny: your whole world can explode around you in an hour, or a minute, or a second. That’s what had happened to Peggy Armour aboard that rowboat, and now that was what was happening to me.

I took another cab from the station to the house and slipped in the back way. The lights were on, upstairs, but I didn’t care to see anybody. I dashed into the downstairs dining room and yanked the big Monet off the wall.

The safe was back there. And I knew the combination. Helen had at least told me that.

It took three sweaty-fingered minutes to make the safe swing open, counting a couple of false starts. I finally had to stop, take a deep breath, and turn the knob in slow motion. I heard the tumblers click. The lock opened.

I reached in and pulled out a sheaf of bills. Five, six, seven hundred. Good, I thought. Torrents of sweat ran down my body. With seven hundred I could get away…anywhere. Anywhere.

I stuffed the money into my pocket. I didn’t plan to take anything else—no clothes, no papers, nothing. I just wanted to get out with my skin intact.

I started to leave.

The lights went on.

* * *

I turned and saw Helen standing by the switch, looking icy and statuesque in her clinging gown, and Berril was right behind her.

“Mike? You didn’t tell me you were coming home so early. I thought—”

“I changed my mind,” I said. I saw them eyeing the picture propped against the wall, the open safe, but they weren’t saying anything.

“We thought there was some prowler down here,” Berril said. “This is the maid’s night off, you know. We were quite startled.”

“I’ll bet you were.”

I started to move toward them. They were blocking the doorway, I saw.

What the hell were they up to?

“Mike, you look awfully funny,” Helen said. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No—no trouble. But I have to get out of here. Let me get past, Helen.”

I moved past her, but Berril was still in my way.

“Stu, get out of the way before I poke you.”

“Mr. Foster, I—”

His face was pale and drawn. So was Helen’s.

I heard a siren wail. A car pulled up. The doorbell rang.

Berril stood squarely in my path. I grabbed him by his padded shoulders and hurled him to one side; he bounced soggily off the wall and started after me as I raced down the hallway to the front door.

I opened it. There were three policemen there.

They stepped inside without giving me a chance to squeeze past, and I saw the dull blue glint of drawn guns. I heard Helen gasp behind me.

“This the Foster residence?” one of them asked. “And yes, we have an entry warrant.”