Wrinkling his nose at the odor of burnt powder and scorched metal,
Bollinger pushed open the ruined door.
The reception lounge was dark. When he found the light switch and
flipped it up, he discovered that the room was also deserted.
Harris Publications occupied the smallst of three business suites on the
fortieth floor. In addition to the hall door by which he had entered,
two other doors opened from the reception area, one to the left and one
to the i-ight. Five rooms. Including the lounge. That didn't leave
Harris and the woman with many places to hide.
First he tried the door to the left. It led to a private corridor that
served three large offices: one for an editor and his secretary, one for
an advertising space salesman, and one for the two-man art department.
Neither Harris nor the woman was in any of those rooms.
Bollinger was cool, calm, but at the same time enormously excited.
No sport could be half so dramatic and rewarding as hunting down people.
He actually enjoyed the chase more than he did the kill.
Indeed, he got an even greater kick out of the first few days
immediately after a kill than he did from either the hunt or the murder
itself. Once the act was done, once blood had been spilled, he had to
wonder if he'd made a mistake, if he'd left behind a clue that would
lead the police straight to him. The tension kept him sharp, made the
juices bubble. Finally, when sufficient time had passed for him to be
certain that he had gotten away with murder, a sense of well-beingf
great importance, towering superiority, godhood-filled him like a magic
elixir flowing into a long-empty pitcher.
The other door connected the reception room and Graham Harris's private
office. It was locked.
He stepped back and fired two shots into the lock. The soft metal
twisted and tore; chunks of wood spun into the air.
He still could not open it. They had pushed a heavy piece of furniture
against the far side.
When he leaned on the door, pushed with all of his strength, he could
not budge it; however, he could make the unseen piece of furniture rock
back and forth on its base. He figured it was something high, at least
as wide as the doorway, but not too deep. Perhaps a bookshelf.
Something with a high center of gravity. He began to force the door
rhythmically: push hard, relax, push hard, relax, push hard.... The
barricade tipped faster and farther each time he wobbled it-and suddenly
it fell away from the door with a loud crash and the sound of breaking
glass.
Abruptly the air was laden with whiskey fumes.
He squeezed through the door which remained partly blocked. He stepped
over the antique bar they had used as a barrier and put his foot in a
puddle of expensive Scotch.
The lights were on, but no one was there.
At the far end of the room there was another door. He went to it,
opened it. Beyond lay the gloomy fortieth-floor corridor.
While he had wasted time searching the offices, they had slipped back
into the hall by this circuitous route, gaining a few minutes lead on
