May would still have to complete the final step, closing the lock and removing the pick, both of which required great precision and a delicate touch. Careful to avoid nudging the tool, she slid the drawer open and explored its contents.
Eyeglasses, face powder, a hairbrush, lipstick, a bottle of hand cream . . . The list, where was the goddamn list? Jackpot: a stack of papers. May slid out the stack and began leafing through it, studying each sheet in turn. At last, she found it. Her pulse quickened as she thought about all she was risking just to add two names to a guest list.
“Stay cool, May,” she whispered to herself. “Stay cool. You’re almost there.”
May took a quick glance at the clock on the wall. Another fifteen minutes in the safety zone. Unless . . . Miss Verdier somehow happened to get off quicker today.
Don’t think like that. She wouldn’t go all that way just to be stingy with herself and stop at foreplay. After all, if she were pressed for time, she would have skipped the masseur and done the job herself, wouldn’t she?
May looked at the typewriter on the desk, a classic Underwood. She slipped the guest list between the roller and the paper rest and turned the platen knob. The paper disappeared beneath the roller and reemerged on the other side.
All that was left was to type out two additions to the list, one false name for Sally-Anne and one for May herself, as well as the PO box they had opened the week before at the main post office as contact information. The guest list would undoubtedly come under heavy scrutiny after the crime took place as the police sought out the guilty parties. And when they did, the search would yield nothing but a pair of fake names and an untraceable PO box. May typed in the first name with the utmost care, using a gentle touch on the keys to stifle the rattling of the type hammers against the ribbon. She barely breathed as she pulled the carriage return lever with the same delicate care, trying as hard as she could to avoid even the slightest jingle of the bell as the paper slid up to the next line. It jingled anyway. May’s heart nearly stopped.
“Miss Verdier, is that you? Are you back already?” called a voice from over in the next room. May froze, paralyzed with fear. Then, without making a sound, she lowered herself carefully to the ground and curled into a fetal position under the desk, hidden from view. She stayed completely motionless, listening to the approaching footsteps. The door creaked open and Mr. Stanfield poked his head into the office.
“Miss Verdier?”
He found the office empty and spotless, as usual. Mr. Stanfield scanned the room, not giving the typewriter a second glance, which was lucky considering that Miss Verdier—clearly the epitome of orderliness—would never have left on a break with a sheet of paper still in the roller. Mr. Stanfield shrugged. “I must be hearing things,” he mumbled, and closed the door.
After he left, it took May several minutes to get her hands to stop shaking, but her whole body was trembling, too. She had never been so terrified.
The incessant ticking of the clock on the wall brought her back to reality. Ten minutes left at most. Ten short minutes to type out the second name and the fake PO box, all while keeping perfectly quiet. Then: replace the paper in the stack, slide the stack back in the drawer, lock the drawer, remove the lockpick, and escape the sprawling manor before the secretary got back. May was behind schedule. She should have already been back with Sally-Anne, who must have been losing her mind at that very moment, out in the parking lot . . .
Concentrate, goddamn it! You don’t have a second to lose.
May began typing, one key after another, wincing at the tapping noise of each letter hitting the page. If the old geezer heard keys rattle or the bell ring again, there was no way he would be satisfied with just a quick little once-over like the last time.
There, done. Turn the roller, slip out the paper, put it exactly as it was within the stack. Keep tapping the papers until they’re packed perfectly tight—do it down on the carpet to keep totally silent. Next, slide the neat little stack back into the drawer, push it all the way in there, just where you found it. Easy now, easy. Close the drawer. Turn the lockpick and don’t even breathe; just listen for the sound of pins clicking into place. Ignore your throbbing temples, the sweat on your brow. Just one more millimeter to go. You can do this, you have to do this . . .
Be cool, May. Be cool. If you can’t get the lockpick out, you’re done for.