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

To the casual observer, however, the scene was one of a first-class disaster. Policemen and city officials and newspeople were everywhere, and Becker was amazed at the sheer number of firemen the city had been able to produce on short notice. Outside, especially in the streets immediately surrounding the building and the construction site, was a blinking logjam of squad cars and ambulances and television vans. Inside, at least in the area immediately surrounding Becker and Timmons, things had — for the moment — actually quieted down a bit. It was the first time since the explosion that the two men had a chance to say much to each other.

“Well,” Timmons observed, his eyes twinkling. “Looks like you saved the day.”

Becker gave him a glum look. “Two cops dead and nobody in custody, I’d say the day wasn’t all that saved.”

“Not according to the chief. He’s saying you’re a hero. And me, too.” He paused, then added, “I like the me part.”

Becker couldn’t help smiling. “Well, if the governor calls, you can talk to him.”

Becker could still hear the sound of sirens outside, though he couldn’t for the life of him think of a practical reason for it at this point, two hours after the fact. He finally decided the sirens were going simply because big things had been happening, and it was a shame to have a siren and let it go to waste on a night like this.

“He was setting it, wasn’t he?” Timmons said. “When we came in, I mean.”

Becker nodded tiredly. “Changing the settings, most likely. To give him time to get away.”

“So we were just lucky.”

“That’s right.”

After a brief silence Timmons said, “At least we stopped him, sarge. At least it didn’t go off tomorrow morning, like you said it might, and kill a thousand people.”

Becker shook his head. “I was wrong about that, Eddie. He never intended it to go off tomorrow morning.”

“But... what you said made sense. Max casualties—”

“Oh, he wanted casualties all right. He was just after a different kind.”

Timmons just stared at him, waiting.

“You saw me go over there and use that phone a while ago, right? To call in?”

Timmons nodded.

“I called the dispatcher,” Becker told him. “I got to thinking about what you said in the car, about the tipoff call. So I asked the guy at dispatch to replay the tape of the call while I listened in.” Becker paused long enough to touch a finger to the bandage over his left eye. He had taken a few minor cuts from the explosion.

“Remember the thumping noise they said they heard in the background?” Becker continued. “Well, as it turned out, I recognized it. It was a kind of a rough hum, with a whump and a rattle thrown in every now and then.”

Timmons looked a little puzzled, then blinked. “The air conditioner,” he said.

Becker nodded.

“You mean... the call came from here?”

“More than that.”

Timmons frowned again. After a moment his face cleared. “It was him,” he said, in an awed voice. “He was the one who called.”

“He had to be. It came from here, and he was here.”

“But... why?”

“He was reeling us in like we said before. First he called to tip us off, then he waited a bit and turned on the lights to make sure we got the message. He knew the bulk of the force was out tonight at the roast, and he knew that meant it’d take the police longer to get here and also longer, probably, to locate the bomb once we did get here. The idea of hiding it in the briefcase, by the way, was a nice touch.”

“I still don’t follow you,” Timmons said.

“I think he knew we’d think we had plenty of time to look for it. I think he set it, the first time, not for the morning rush but for right about now, give or take an hour, so he’d get as many cops as he could. Maybe even the bomb squad itself.”

“And then we showed up.”

“Right. And he figured he’d better move the schedule up a bit and reset it to give himself just enough time to get clear.”

Timmons shrugged. “Okay, so we saved a dozen people instead of a thousand. I’m not picky.”

Becker barely heard him. He realized he was about as tired as he had ever been in his life. As he looked around the lobby, he caught a glimpse of Ralph Hendrix talking into three microphones at the same time.

After a pause Timmons spoke up again. “That brings up one more question,” he said. “Why’d he get surprised in the first place? If he’d done all this planning, why’d he take so long to do what he was doing?”

Becker sighed. “I’ve been puzzling over that,” he agreed. “I think what happened was, he hid somewhere in the building until after everyone left, then went up the stairs to thirty-two and made the tipoff call from the receptionist’s desk. He waited a bit, cut the lights on, and went into a random office, where he planned to hide the briefcase and then get out again, fast, before the cavalry arrived. Which he could have — should have — been able to do, with no problem.”

“Except—”

“Except for the keys.”

Once again Timmons stared at him.