Free The Longest Second by Bill S. Ballinger Page B

there, and the picture was returned to its original position. Carefully I inspected the chairs with their cushions and backs; next I went over the bed, inch by inch, testing the posts for concealed holes. The only object remaining in the room which I had not scrutinized was the large mirror. It was extremely heavy, and I could not imagine Rosemary having the strength to take it down and rehang it by herself. I walked over to it, and stood looking at it.
    Finally I ran my finger along the edges on the underside of the glass. There was a folded piece of paper attached to the back with Scotch tape. Returning to the chair, I unfolded the note. It read:

    Dear Vic:

    Knowing you, I have no doubt that you will find this after I leave. I’m writing only in case I don’t have a chance to see you alone tomorrow.
    You must have good reason for your pretense of amnesia and have planned accordingly. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’ve gone along with them. And I’ve taken enough chances for you that I still expect my cut, as you promised.
    I’m sure I saw Amar yesterday and I’m getting scared. You can contact me under the old name at the same place.
    R.

    I reread the note, but it still meant nothing to me. I knew no Amar who had frightened her. At some time I had promised her a cut ... an interest... in something which I could not remember. She had another name which I was expected to know, and she would be staying at a place with which I was supposed to be familiar. The note confused me, and it filled me with a sense of helplessness. I was stifled with the silence surrounding me, caught up in wrappings of the unknown, trapped by my own ignorance of past danger.
    With the morning I remembered that Bianca had once mentioned Rosemary Martin’s former apartment. Bianca gave me the address, located just off Fifth Avenue, and late that afternoon I went up to see if Rosemary was there. The apartment was situated in the east Sixties, and the building although small was pretentious. There was no doorman and the lobby opened directly off the street. The lobby was paneled and had an inlaid marble floor, and it contained six brightly polished mailboxes. I examined the names on the boxes, carefully, although there was no Rosemary Martin. The other names were meaningless ... Roache, Townshend, Curtis, Levy, Wainwright, and O’Brien. However, I jotted them down on a slip of paper. As I was preparing to leave, the inside door of the lobby, which was locked, opened and a dignified-appearing man, in his late fifties, came out. He looked at me, nodded pleasantly, and opening the street door went outside.
    After a moment or so, I followed him. He sauntered down the street and on the comer of Fifth hailed a cab. I did not recognize him although it had seemed to me that his greeting had been more than the casual one of a stranger. I caught the bus down Fifth Avenue, and getting off walked over to the IRT and took the subway to Merkle’s neighborhood.
    By the time I arrived, Merkle had returned home from work. “I’ve got the cards,” he said letting me into his apartment. It had not been cleaned since my previous visit. He gave me a cardboard box which held the double postcards, all of which had been prestamped. I thanked him for them, “How about staying and having dinner with me?” he asked. I didn’t care to stay, but I felt obligated and, besides, he appeared so pathetically anxious for company that I agreed. “We won’t eat here,” he hastened to explain as soon as I had accepted, “but there’s a good place right around the corner.”
    We went to the restaurant he had in mind. It was a dreary one, and the food was very bad. I made the best of the situation although I could not eat much of the meal. When we parted, Merkle reassured me that I had no worries concerning the cards. He would be sure to let me know if I received replies of any value from the banks.
    As I turned down Parnell Place, walking the short distance to