"It won't take but a minute."
"All right."
He sighed, picked up the brief case, and followed Dora outside. She
showed him the door of an office some thirty paces from his own, and he
entered without knocking.
A frail man, with a bald head and a squiggly moustache, stood up behind
his desk.
"Oh, dear," he said nervously. "I'm terribly sorry to do this, Mr.
Blacker. But I have my instructions."
"Do what?"
"Oh, dear," Mr. Wright said again.
* * * * *
He took the gun that was lying in his out-box, and fired it. His
trembling hand sent the bullet spanging into the wooden frame of the
door. Tom dropped to the thick carpet, and then scrambled to the tall
credenza set against the right wall of the office. He shoved it aside
with his left hand and ducked behind it. The treasurer came out from
behind his desk, still muttering to himself.
"Please," he said in anguish, "this is very painful for me!"
He fired the gun again, and the bullet tore a white hole in the wall
above Tom's head.
"Don't be so difficult," the little man pleaded. "Sooner or later--"
But Tom insisted upon being difficult. His fingers closed around a loose
volume of New York State Tax Laws, and jiggled it in readiness. When the
little treasurer came closer, he sprung from hiding and hurled the book.
It slammed against Wright's side, and surprised him enough to send the
arm holding the weapon into the air. That was the advantage Tom wanted.
He leaped in a low-flying tackle, and brought Wright to the carpet. Then
he was on top of the little man, grappling for the gun. Tom fought hard
to get the gun.
He got it, but not before it was fired again.
Tom looked down at the widening stain that was marring the smooth
texture of the carpet and was horrified. He bent down over the frail
figure, lifting the bald head in his hands.
"Mr. Wright!"