In the boys' washroom he set the chair down in the center of the gleaming white tile floor and stepped up on it. It was not high enough to enable him to reach the light fixture. Twisting his mouth nervously under the cotton mustache pasted to his lip, he jumped down and dragged the chair back to the dressingroom. There was a small table there. Irving Zimmerman's overnight case lay open on it. He moved this, set it on the floor. Then, sweat breaking out in big drops through his makeup, he carried the table to the washroom. He clambered onto it and grinned. He was just able to reach the frosted bowl covering the light bulb. The screws that held the bowl in place worked easily. He sat the bowl down, then unscrewed the bulb itself just far enough so that it went out. Next, working cautiously in the dark, hands shaking, he sat the bowl back in position and fixed the screws tight.

With a smirk he got down and dragged the table back to the dressing room. He set Irving's case on it again. Then he picked up Dick Nelson's camera in its leather case. It had been brought at Zoe's request to photograph the cast and some scenes, after tonight's play. Reece snapped open the case and fitted to the camera its flashgun attachment. The pockets of Dick's coat, hanging over a chair back, bulged. Reece reached into a pocket and took out a flashbulb, unwrapped it and inserted it in the gun. As he crossed the hall on his way back to the washroom, the laughter of the audience echoed down to him, and a scattering of applause.

The washroom was totally black inside, the air sharp with the reek of disinfectant. Reece moved slowly and cautiously to sit down on one of the toilet fixtures, the camera in his lap. Here he was back of the door so that when they came in the light from the hall would not fall on him. His hands sweated, clutching the camera. They trembled. He must be careful not to touch the shutter plunger. To set the thing off accidentally would be fatal. The watch on his wrist had a luminous dial. He frowned at it. Where the hell were they? They exited six minutes after he did. He must have worked faster than he had calculated.

There were careful footsteps outside the door. The sweat soaking his clothes turned cold. He gripped the camera hard. He would have to control his nerves, not get excited, wait until they were posed for the kind of picture he wanted to take. He would have to guess from their sounds where they were in the room, aim, flick the plunger, then grab the door and get out and up the stairs before they could catch him. In the pitch blackness he groped for the door handle. It was within easy reach.

Now the door swung open a foot. His heart thudded in his chest. At the base of his skull it felt as if some one was pounding with a fist. A narrow oblong of light fell across the gleaming tile. In it he saw a grotesque, foreshortened shadow. There were movements, the scrape of shoes. The lightswitch clicked, again, then quickly three or four times.

"Broken," was the whisper. "It's all dark in there."

The door opened wider. The two of them came in, shoes scuffing. There was a short nervous laugh. The door lapsed closed.

10.

Zoe Kemper, script in hand, sweltered among the folds of the curtains off stage and anxiously watched the progress of the play. So far no one had missed a line. They were dragging, but the audience of parents and friends laughed heartily, and not too often at the wrong times. Maxine looked very pretty on the chintz sofa. The whole set was just cottagey enough, cozy and cute, the flats under the lights bright with the new coat of paint the kids had given them. Though tense,

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