Murder Up My Sleeve

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Terry Clane sat waiting in the outer office of the district attorney, and had no idea why he was waiting, nor for what.

In the background of his immediate memory was the recollection of peremptory knuckles on his door, of men pushing past Yat T’oy, his Chinese servant, and into his bedroom, waiting while he dressed, of being hustled into a police car, which with screaming siren clearing its way through traffic, had rushed him to the district attorney’s office.

Against the background of these hectic and scrambled memories, the irksome waiting in the district attorney’s outer office was a period of nerve strain which made the clacking of the wall clock seem a veritable tattoo of accusation.

The blonde young woman at the information desk from time to time made a surreptitious study of Terry Clane’s profile.

Keeping his eyes averted, yet conscious of her scrutiny, Terry wondered whether the district attorney had perhaps instructed her to observe and report upon his demeanor, or if her interest were purely gratuitous.

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