Death Has a Small Voice Read Online Free

been waiting—and she knew it now too late—in the concealment of high, metal filing cases. She tried to turn.
    She was not quick enough.
    Sven Helder turned his copy of Time magazine upside-down on the table in front of him, extracted his large watch from a pocket, and looked at the watch. As he had known it would, the watch showed the hour to be ten-thirty. Mr. Helder picked up Time magazine, closed it, and put it in the drawer of the table. He looked at the ledger in front of him and re-informed himself that, Mrs. Gerald North had gone up at 2132—Helder was a retired chief petty officer, and liked a log kept in a ship-shape manner—and had not come down. Helder sighed deeply and shook his head heavily. It was like them.
    She knew, she had been there often enough to know, that the building closed at ten-thirty. The front doors were locked, then. Helder made his final rounds then. After them he had his sandwiches and coffee; after that he went to sleep in his room in the basement. These things happened nightly, except on Sunday. Mrs. Gerald North knew that as well as anyone. It was merely that she was, after all, like the rest of them. She had no regard for regulations.
    Helder got up heavily and went to the elevator. He clanged the door closed and started it up; at the fourth floor, he clanged the door open. If she hadn’t heard the elevator by now, she wouldn’t hear anything. Nevertheless, he yelled, “Hey, Mrs. North!” Nobody answered.
    Helder made a remark under his breath, ran the elevator to floor level— he wasn’t going to step up—and went to the closed doors of North Books, Inc. There was no light showing through the glass panels. Nevertheless, he pushed at the doors and found them unlocked. He poked his head into the dark offices, and again called Pamela North. But by then he knew what had happened.
    She had gone down the stairs, instead of ringing for him. She must have gone—let’s see now. She must have gone when, about ten, he’d gone down to the head for a minute. Anyway, she clearly wasn’t there now.
    He closed the door to North Books, Inc., and locked it, as Mrs. North had neglected to do. He went back to the elevator and trundled it down. He supposed she had meant all right; probably she’d meant to save him a trip. She was like that. But she ought to have remembered that he’d have to check up on her unless she signed herself out. Well—there you were. Even the best of them.
    He looked at his log when he was back at the table. He knew he had not made a mistake, and he hadn’t. Mrs. North had not signed herself out. He shook his head over this. He would have thought better of her. He went to the double doors of the building. He stepped out of them and stood just outside for a moment. It was a pleasant night, warm for late October. Not that the weather was to be trusted, in the fall. It would snow any day now.
    He watched a station wagon pull away from the curb two doors down the street. He looked east and west along the street, and saw no one. He went back inside and locked the doors behind him. He started on his last round of the night.

III
    Tuesday, October 28:10 A . M . to 2:25 P . M .
    Acting Captain William Weigand sat in his small office, at his rather battered desk, in the West Twentieth Street station house, and dealt with routine. There was not, and had not been for several months, much that was not routine. People continued to kill other people, of course. They killed with guns. In certain areas they killed with knives. They killed with blackjacks, and with the leather of shoes and sometimes with their fists. They left bodies on the streets, and in the parks and in the North and East rivers. By and large, they were caught, or would be caught. By and large, they were taken care of on the precinct level.
    The takings off were, nevertheless, part of the routine of Homicide, West. Reports came in; reports were read,