Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

The floorplan was still spread out on Hendrix’s desk, near the elevator. While Timmons wrung his hands, Becker studied the layout, stopping every few seconds to fire questions at the guard.

“Any other exits?” he asked.

“Just the elevator and the two sets of stairs.”

“Roof access?”

“Only from the stairwells.”

“Outside fire escapes?”

“No. The windows don’t open. If you go out, you go down.”

“What about lights?”

“On that floor? One switch, near the elevator. Controls the hallway and all the offices.” When Becker looked surprised, Hendrix added, “I knew a guy who worked up there years ago. The offices used to be a bunch of open cubicles with partitions. The wiring never got changed.”

“Well,” Becker murmured. “At least nobody’ll be hiding in the shadows.” He chewed his lip a moment, his mind working. “What about noise this time of night?” he asked.

The guard frowned. “Pardon?”

“How noisy is it on thirty-two? Fans, generators, piped-in music?”

“Just the air conditioning. It’s a big unit.”

“It’s loud?”

“Kind of a rumble. You know.”

“Can it be turned off from up there?”

“Don’t think so. Another throwback to earlier times. Some of the top floors used to have computer gear that had to stay cool. It’s controlled centrally from somewhere.”

“Okay.” Becker stared at the plans, still thinking. “Right now I need you here, Mr. Hendrix, but later I may phone you to go find the a/c and switch it off. Understood?”

As the guard nodded, Timmons cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sarge,” he said, his voice shaky, “but it seems to me — well, we might want a little noise up there, while we’re poking around. If we can’t hear him, maybe he won’t hear us.”

Becker glanced up from the floor-plan. “That’s not what I’m talking about. We might need to listen for sounds that he wouldn’t.”

“What kind of sounds?”

Instead of answering, Becker turned to the guard. “Where’s your other set of keys?”

Hendrix held out a ring of about fifty. “Office numbers are written on ’em.”

“No master key?”

“Not any more. All the locks were changed last week after some folks left the firm.”

“What kind of sounds?” Timmons asked again.

Becker looked him in the eye as he clipped the key ring to his belt. “Ticking sounds,” he said.

Their gazes held for a second longer, then Becker scribbled a number on a desk pad and handed it to the guard. “Use your phone to contact me but only if you have to. And when you see us reach thirty-two—” he pointed to the floor indicator above the elevator doors “—call Spellman and Rice on their radio. Tell them to wait five seconds, then go in. Timmons and I’ll enter from this end of the hall. I’ll send our elevator back down, and you hold it here along with the other one. Okay?”

Becker waited for Hendrix to nod, then turned and headed for the elevator. Timmons followed, his face as pale as chalk.

“Good luck,” the guard called as the doors closed behind them.

In the elevator Becker checked his gear. Service revolver, cell phone, cuffs, flashlight. The light was probably unnecessary tonight, but he was glad he had it along. He wished he had a shotgun.

He glanced at his partner, who still looked a little green around the gills. “You okay?” Becker said.

Timmons swallowed and kept his eyes straight ahead, staring at nothing. “What do you think it would feel like?” he asked.

Becker regarded him a moment. Timmons was leaning back against the wall of the elevator car, beads of sweat glistening on his cheeks and forehead. “What would what feel like?”

“An explosion,” Timmons said. “I’ve heard that when it happens you don’t feel, or hear, a thing. You think that’s true?”

Becker shook his head. “We’re not going to get blown up, Eddie. Not tonight anyway.” He raised his eyes and looked at the floor numbers on the display panel as the car rose. “For one thing our experts say this guy — if it’s really him — is careful. He works slow. And since we know he’s been here less than fifteen minutes — we saw the lights come on ourselves, remember — he probably hasn’t had time to arm and plant anything yet.” Becker paused, watching the numbers change. They were at the nineteenth floor and climbing.

“The second thing is, even if he has already hidden it, we’ve got at least eight hours to find the damn thing. This dude’s ego is probably as big as Bigfoot; he’ll go for max headlines and max casualties. No way he’d set it to blow before the morning crowds arrive for work.” Becker took a breath and let it out slowly, still watching the display. Twenty-seven... twenty-eight... twenty-nine...

“So if you want to worry about something, Eddie my man, worry about getting shot. Better yet, worry about me getting shot.”

As Becker spoke the words, the elevator car slowed. The red number thirty-two appeared on the display and stayed there. Becker heard a ding, then a moment of total silence.

The doors opened.