still uncertain as he left the Seeley file in the center. Then he rang for his secretary.
'You can give these to Perkins,' he said, pointing. 'The rest are for Davis.'
'And that one?'
He stared at the Seeley claim, and his words seemed to come from other lips. 'A hundred thousand is a lot of money,' he said. 'I think I'll handle that one myself.'
He nodded casually, reached for the phone and called her. Just one more claim to close out, just one more routine appointment, in which to persuade a beneficiary to leave her money with the company, at interest.
He heard the buzz of the phone, and her answering voice. He recognized it at once, the queer little lilt of excitement in it, as if she expected something wonderful to happen at any moment. No, her voice hadn't changed. But his had with much practice, of course.
He made the appointment for the next morning, ten o'clock at her house.
He had no fears. In the past five years, since he had had this job, he'd occasionally run into former friends. They hadn't recognized him; they suspected nothing when he brought the conversation around to Fran. They told him her married name, and they discussed the long-ago story of the bank teller who had shot and killed her brother, and was probably dead.
Bannerman's work brought him in contact with the police, too. He'd been in and out of precinct houses and had even sat down with a police inspector. So he knew his identity was safe.
He thought about her on and off, all day. When he saw her, he'd say, 'We have friends in common. They've told me a lot about you. I feel as if I knew you.'
He'd be polite. He'd say, 'You're a brave woman, Mrs. Seeley, to have built up a new life after that early tragedy.' Then he'd smile and add thoughtfully, 'Because you must always wonder whether, if you hadn't been foolish enough to grab the gun, your brother would have been shot.'
That would be a nice touch, to plant the doubt in her conscience again, to make
He slept well that night. He didn't dream, and he awoke sound and fit. He had his usual drugstore breakfast, drove to the office and parked in the company lot. He went over his mail, sorted it and dictated a few routine letters. Then he went downstairs and drove to the suburbs for his first appointment. With Mrs. Marvin Seeley.
He judged the house to be worth about fifty thousand dollars. It was in good taste, as Fran's was bound to be. The doors of the three-car garage were open, and he could see a convertible in it. Wealthy, he told himself, but not flaunting it. Probably one servant, and maybe a part-time maid. Fran might open the door herself. But he was prepared for that, too.
He'd see a plump, middle-aged widow, and she'd see a Stranger, Hugh Bannerman, from the insurance company.
He rang the bell, and waited eagerly. He heard a quick, light step, and the door swung open. As if in a dream, he saw that she was young and lovely and unchanged. Her blue eyes still sparkled with the marvel of the world, her blonde hair still shone and she had the same young, slim litheness. For a fleeting moment he was stunned, unable to believe in the miracle of her youth.
'Winky!' he exclaimed.
She looked at him in astonishment. Then, mocking him, enjoying the joke, she glanced behind her and said in that familiar voice, 'Mother, there's somebody here who wants Winky. Who would that be?'
With a gasp, he lurched back. His foot missed the step and his ankle twisted and folded up underneath him. He felt a stab of pain as he went sprawling headlong.
He was unconscious for only a few seconds, but he kept his eyes closed, thinking hard, telling himself the blunder wasn't fatal, he'd get out of it somehow.
He heard footsteps come from the house, and someone stooped down beside him, but he didn't look at Fran Seeley yet. In an inspired flash, he decided to claim the girl had misunderstood him. Then he'd leave, and let Perkins come tomorrow and settle the insurance.
Winky — Seeley — the sounds were close enough. And he could certainly handle a couple of women who were upset and flustered over an accident. He'd done it often enough, in the course of his work.
Confidently, proud of his quick wits and supremely sure of himself, he opened his eyes.
Fran was older. She was a bit heavier and her face, soft and still beautiful in maturity, was compassionate, as if she had suffered deeply. Her eyes glowed with the tenderness of her sympathy, and she was evidently concerned with nothing but his pain. Which, as far as he was concerned, was all to the good. The mishap was working out in his favor.
'I'm afraid I gave my ankle a bad wrench,' he said shakily.
'I'm terribly sorry. Do you think you could stand up? If you lean on us, Ethel and I can help you inside.'
'I'll try,' he said.
He raised himself awkwardly and rested his weight on the shoulders of the two women. Panting with the effort, he hobbled into the house and sank heavily into the deep cushions of a couch near the fireplace, where the light was subdued. His ankle gave him another twinge, and the warm, sumptuous room seemed to waver in front of his eyes.
'I hate to bother you,' he said. 'But if you'll call a doctor, he'll strap up my ankle and I'll be able to take care of myself.'
'What you need right now,' Fran said energetically, 'is a drink of whisky. You're white as a sheet.' She turned, showing her clear, molded profile. 'Would you get the decanter, Ethel? And a glass from the kitchen?'
'Of course, Mother.'
The girl left, and Fran leaned forward. She appeared to be undergoing a struggle, and she studied him in rapt concentration.
He jerked away, sharply aware that this was the first time anyone had had a reason to study him so closely. Never before had his disguise been put to the test.
'I hope,' he said lightly, pretending amusement, 'that your daughter doesn't get mixed up on the drinks the way she did on the name.'
Fran didn't answer. If only he could get up, run, push her out of the way, escape. Anything except sit here and wait, exposed to her intense scrutiny.
He put his hand to his face, to screen it. He massaged his cheek briskly, and dropped his hand flat. He shouldn't have done it that way. Not with his old gesture, so familiar to her.
'That drink,' he said, with growing panic. 'I need it. What's taking so long?'
Then, finally, she spoke. 'Blinky,' she said, slowly and with distaste.
Secret Recipe
by CHARLES MERGENDAHL
By way of introduction, may I present this bit of folklore. Among a small tribe of peace-loving cannibals, there was one more ingenious than all the rest. Not satisfied to merely eat the white man, he learned his ways. And so during one bountiful harvest season, he reduced his village's food supply to ashes, and placed the ashes in small jars labeled Instant People.
'You're sure?' Simon said into the phone. 'Nothing you want me to pick up on the way home?'
'No, everything's fine, dear. Polly's gone off with little Susie Steele, and I've planned a very exotic dinner — just like you suggested.'
'Well, it is important,' Simon said.
'Of course it is, dear.' Sheila's voice sounded calm, almost too calm, and for a moment he felt serious doubts.
