I tried to locate him, meanwhile sipping my Collins as though I
belonged here. Then I did something I always do unconsciously as a
matter of habit. I felt in my hip pocket to make sure my own wallet
hadn't been stolen by some other pickpocket. It was gone!
So that was it! The little man was a pickpocket. I thought I had seen
him someplace before! I grinned suddenly, wondering if he had really
missed his billfold yet.
* * * * *
I kept looking for him. Then things happened fast. I saw the little man
sliding away from the man who had let me into the house. George Wile.
I took a step after the little man. My eyes jerked back to George when
he uttered a scream and clutched at his back. He fell forward, his arms
and legs jerking.
I pulled my eyes away, searching for the little man. A crowd was
rushing around George Wile. I heard someone--a woman--scream, "My God!
He's dead!"
I saw the little man at the front door. He slipped out as I pushed
through the crowd toward him. I went as fast as I dared. When I reached
the sidewalk I saw him running toward the drugstore.
I ran after him, gaining rapidly. He looked over his shoulder and saw
me. Then--
He just vanished. Right in front of my eyes. He couldn't have darted
off the walk into the bushes.
I stopped, not believing my eyes, and started searching the lawns
carefully. A couple of minutes later I heard sirens coming toward this
part of town.
I hid between two houses and watched the police cars pull up in front
of Sarah Fish's place. Then I went to the bus line.
A few hours later, after a lot of riding around town I climbed up to
the sidewalk from the subway. A night extra was being shouted.
"Big murdah in Evanston!"
And I knew before I read the paper that it would give my name as the
murdered man. Premonition. I was beginning to believe in it now.
I went to an all night cafe and ordered a hamburger plate and read the
paper. They had identified the victim by the wallet they found on him.
My wallet, of course. And that meant that the little man had planted it
on him and then killed him. With a poisoned needle the papers said.
Why?
I gave up trying to figure it out after a while and went to my
apartment. I had made up my mind to get out of town. They might find
out the victim's real identity, and then they would come looking for me
to find out why my wallet was on him.
I locked the door and began packing clothes into a suitcase. I became
aware after a while of someone standing behind me. I jerked around in
alarm. It was the little man.
"You!" I blurted. "How'd you get in here?" I doubled a fist and started
toward him. He had killed a man and planted my wallet on the corpse.
Then, suddenly, a queer distortion blanketed my mind. I had a strange
conviction that things were happening just the way they had happened
before--many times before--only not at different times, but this very
instant.
Abruptly, like a veil drawing away from a window, the distortion
vanished. With preternatural clarity everything that had happened
flooded into memory.
"Good!" Golfin said. "I see the time-lines have emerged as true
memories. And this time I saved your life."
"You think so?" I snarled. "The police will be after me by morning.
They'll pin the murder on me--the murder _you_ committed."
He was shaking his head. "I didn't kill George Wile. Let me explain
what happened. But go on with your packing. I can talk while you work."