Free Ask the Right Question by Michael Z. Lewin Page A

women’s rest room. Not my first visit to such a place. I found the door and tried it. It was locked. He locked the ladies’. Wonderment set in, as I worked at the lock. Maybe it was a good omen. Maybe he was a locker, and not a bugger.
    I stepped into the hall and looked around. Within a few minutes I found the receptionist’s office. I went in. I was looking for files but I didn’t find them.
    Two doors led out of the room. Both locked. Soon both unlocked. One was the doctor’s office. In the other I found the files.
    A special file room, accessible from both the doctor’s and receptionist’s offices. There was a bank of filing cabinets in the middle of the room. They were on a rotating base, so with a little effort you could get to the front of four sides of files. Very modern.
    I hesitated before I started on the file cabinet’s locks. This might be the biggest gamble so far. If, by some chance, special papers or drugs were kept in the room, the odds of electric reprisals were considerable. My time would be short. So before I started on them I prepared my camera in case a few seconds would make a difference.
    Most detectives who photograph records have special equipment for it. I don’t get much call for industrial spying, so I have to make do with the equipment I have. The electronic flash, for instance, is prohibitively bright for this sort of close-up work. Rather than get another I have rigged a filter for the flash which cuts out about 70 percent of the light. Makes it more suitable for close-ups. I also use a relatively slow film.
    I opened the files. As far as I knew I had triggered no alarms.
    Busy hands are tools of the Lord. I located “Crystal” in the front file. There was a folder for each of them. Fleur, Leander, and Eloise. I took them out one by one. Spread the sheets on the floor and took pictures of each side of each pair of pages.
    After finishing the three Crystals I checked the file for Graham and found nothing. That disturbed me momentarily. I was interested in Estes Graham’s medical history, so I started checking the contents of the various trays in the rest of the cabinets. Visions of a separate file or an archives room or microfilmed records flitted through my mind. But when I had rotated the bank of files to bring its back to front I found an entire cabinet marked “Wilmer Fishman, Sr.,” and from these I extracted files on six Grahams. A husband, a wife and four children. The pages were densely covered and the decaying paper made for poorer contrast. I prayed for legible pictures and snapped away. One by one, side by side.
    By the end I was sweating and my batteries were taking longer and longer to get up the oomph for a flash. They had had a rough night.
    I paused after my last Graham, only to think if there was anyone else I wanted information on. I looked under Olian and found nothing. I was glad, and more quickly than I had opened them, I closed the files and relocked their trays.
    My next problem was getting out. I contemplated retracing my steps. The conservative exit. But slipping out the ladies’ room window didn’t appeal to me. I felt too good for that. Too successful. I was swept by a premature feeling of elation. I chose the honorable way out. I left by the front door. When I finally found it.
    It was latched. Two latches, one door. He was a locker. I saw no wires or other danger signs. I was in a hurry to be out of there, to be home. I threw the latches, and stepped out the door.
    On the top step I looked briefly into the sky. A clear, fall night. It felt cool, because of the moisture still beaded on my forehead. Cool and good. It felt clean. I felt springy. I felt I belonged on a top step.
    To add an elegant touch for unpresent eyes I turned to the door and made as if to lock it.
    I was flooded by light.
    I froze. The light stayed on me. React! Think fast!
    â€œCharlie?” I asked, turning, bluffing, knees