again.”
I had to leave her; I just couldn’t take more.
“Listen, dear,” I said, “I hope you haven’t forgotten about that picnic you and I are going to have.”
“Oh no,” she said, eyes wide. “I remember.”
“Good. Let’s make it real soon.”
“I love you, too,” she said suddenly.
Then I left and stumbled my way back to the main house, sad and shaken. I was ready to return as quickly as possible to the McNally digs and have a wallop to restore my belief in this, the best of all possible worlds. But it was not to be.
As I proceeded down the main hallway to the front door, the Griswold Forsythes, II and III, were just entering in their blazers and flannel bags. We stopped to chat.
“Good voyage?” I asked them.
“Nice cruise,” the younger replied. “Fine lunch with bubbly. But I don’t think we want to buy that particular yacht, do we, father?”
“We don’t want to buy any yacht,” the older said sharply. “Archy, may I see you in the library for a moment.”
Griswold III departed, his crest somewhat droopy, and I followed the II into the library. He took the swivel behind the desk and I sat in the armchair alongside. I imagined, with dread, he was about to report another item of value was missing. It turned out to be worse than that.
“My wife and I occupy separate bedrooms,” he said stonily. “Last night I retired shortly before midnight and found this note placed on my pillow.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and then handed me a square of paper. It had two straight and two ragged edges as if it had been torn from the corner of a larger sheet of white foolscap.
Written on it in large block letters were two words: YOUR NEXT. The printing was quavery, as if it had been done with the left hand of a right-handed person, or vice versa. There was no way of knowing if it had been inscribed by man or woman.
I studied those two words a moment and naturally, because I have rather pedantic leanings, I immediately noted the absence of an apostrophe. If the first word was intended to be a contraction of YOU ARE, the writer was obviously a dolt. But perhaps the message was meant to be an abbreviated warning that another of Mr. Forsythe’s possessions would soon disappear: YOUR (something) NEXT.
I explained this to our client. He listened impatiently and didn’t seem impressed.
“I guessed all that myself,” he said irritably. “I am not an idiot, you know. I believe it is a misspelled threat against my person—YOU ARE NEXT, without the apostrophe. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think that’s the correct assumption. And after what happened to Mrs. Sylvia I urge you to report this to Sergeant Rogoff as soon as possible.”
He looked at me queerly. “It’s a shock,” he said, “to realize that someone in your home plans to do you harm. Strangle you, perhaps.”
“You have every right to feel that way, Mr. Forsythe. It’s a terrible thing. Who has access to your bedroom, sir?”
“Everyone in the house. The door is never locked.”
“All the more reason to call in the police. Would you like me to phone Sergeant Rogoff now?”
He paused a moment. “No,” he said, “not yet. I want to make a few inquiries myself this evening.”
“Please, Mr. Forsythe,” I urged, “don’t postpone it. I take this note very seriously. Your life may be in danger.”
“I am well aware of that, young man,” he said almost angrily. “And this evening I shall lock my bedroom door and prop a chair under the inside knob. I’ll survive the night, I assure you.” He pondered, pulling at his lower lip. Then: “I suggest you, Sergeant Rogoff, and I meet at my office tomorrow. You know where it is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My son has an appointment with his periodontist at noon. Our clerk”—(He pronounced it ‘clark’)—“customarily leaves for lunch at twelve fifteen. If you and the sergeant arrive at twelve thirty I believe we’ll be able to have a private
I had to leave her; I just couldn’t take more.
“Listen, dear,” I said, “I hope you haven’t forgotten about that picnic you and I are going to have.”
“Oh no,” she said, eyes wide. “I remember.”
“Good. Let’s make it real soon.”
“I love you, too,” she said suddenly.
Then I left and stumbled my way back to the main house, sad and shaken. I was ready to return as quickly as possible to the McNally digs and have a wallop to restore my belief in this, the best of all possible worlds. But it was not to be.
As I proceeded down the main hallway to the front door, the Griswold Forsythes, II and III, were just entering in their blazers and flannel bags. We stopped to chat.
“Good voyage?” I asked them.
“Nice cruise,” the younger replied. “Fine lunch with bubbly. But I don’t think we want to buy that particular yacht, do we, father?”
“We don’t want to buy any yacht,” the older said sharply. “Archy, may I see you in the library for a moment.”
Griswold III departed, his crest somewhat droopy, and I followed the II into the library. He took the swivel behind the desk and I sat in the armchair alongside. I imagined, with dread, he was about to report another item of value was missing. It turned out to be worse than that.
“My wife and I occupy separate bedrooms,” he said stonily. “Last night I retired shortly before midnight and found this note placed on my pillow.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and then handed me a square of paper. It had two straight and two ragged edges as if it had been torn from the corner of a larger sheet of white foolscap.
Written on it in large block letters were two words: YOUR NEXT. The printing was quavery, as if it had been done with the left hand of a right-handed person, or vice versa. There was no way of knowing if it had been inscribed by man or woman.
I studied those two words a moment and naturally, because I have rather pedantic leanings, I immediately noted the absence of an apostrophe. If the first word was intended to be a contraction of YOU ARE, the writer was obviously a dolt. But perhaps the message was meant to be an abbreviated warning that another of Mr. Forsythe’s possessions would soon disappear: YOUR (something) NEXT.
I explained this to our client. He listened impatiently and didn’t seem impressed.
“I guessed all that myself,” he said irritably. “I am not an idiot, you know. I believe it is a misspelled threat against my person—YOU ARE NEXT, without the apostrophe. Do you agree?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think that’s the correct assumption. And after what happened to Mrs. Sylvia I urge you to report this to Sergeant Rogoff as soon as possible.”
He looked at me queerly. “It’s a shock,” he said, “to realize that someone in your home plans to do you harm. Strangle you, perhaps.”
“You have every right to feel that way, Mr. Forsythe. It’s a terrible thing. Who has access to your bedroom, sir?”
“Everyone in the house. The door is never locked.”
“All the more reason to call in the police. Would you like me to phone Sergeant Rogoff now?”
He paused a moment. “No,” he said, “not yet. I want to make a few inquiries myself this evening.”
“Please, Mr. Forsythe,” I urged, “don’t postpone it. I take this note very seriously. Your life may be in danger.”
“I am well aware of that, young man,” he said almost angrily. “And this evening I shall lock my bedroom door and prop a chair under the inside knob. I’ll survive the night, I assure you.” He pondered, pulling at his lower lip. Then: “I suggest you, Sergeant Rogoff, and I meet at my office tomorrow. You know where it is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My son has an appointment with his periodontist at noon. Our clerk”—(He pronounced it ‘clark’)—“customarily leaves for lunch at twelve fifteen. If you and the sergeant arrive at twelve thirty I believe we’ll be able to have a private
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