From the Heart

mahogany desk with neat stacks of papers, a blotter with names and numbers scribbled on it, and a Tiffany lamp. Slade switched it on. He caught the boldly printed ULYSSES NEEDS FOOD on the blotter right beneath the scrawled “New mop hndl—Betsy annoyed.” With a half grin, Slade shook his head. Jessica’s idea of organization was beyond him. Turning away, he walked to the file cabinet set in the rear corner.
    The top drawer seemed to be her personal items. He found a receipt for a blouse she had bought two years before in a file marked INSURANCE POLICIES — SHOP. Between two file folders was a wrinkled grocery list. On a sound of annoyance, he pulled out the second drawer.
    It was the other side of the coin. The files were neat, legible, and in perfect order. A quick flip through them showed Slade they were receipts for the current year, arranged chronologically, delivery bills, also current andchronological, and business correspondence. Each section was a study in organized filing. He thought of the top drawer and shook his head.
    In the third drawer he found what he was looking for—receipts from the previous year. Slade drew out the first file folder and took it to the desk. Methodically, he scanned each one, beginning in January. He learned nothing else, when he had completed the first quarter’s receipts, other than the fact that Jessica did a thriving business.
    Slade replaced the first folder and drew out the second. Time ticked away as he examined each paper. He drew out a cigarette and worked patiently from month to month. He found it in June. One Chippendale cabinet—kingwood with marquetry decoration. His brow rose slightly at the price.
    “Not a bad deal, I imagine,” he murmured. Noting the name of the purchaser, he smiled. “Everyone makes a tidy little profit.” After pocketing the receipt, Slade reached for the phone. Brewster might find David’s little story very interesting. Before he had punched two numbers, Slade heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Swiftly he turned out the light. As he moved from the desk he drew out his gun.
     
    Jessica sped along the winding back road that led to her shop. If she’d had an ounce of sense, she berated herself, she would have told David to call the number Slade had given him. Why hadn’t she at least told him to keep calling the shop until he reached Slade?
    Nervously, she glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. Oh God, if only the man coming to meet Michael were late! Slade would be in the back room, she concluded, searching through the old receipts. What would the man do when he got to the shop and found Slade there instead of Michael? Jessica pressed down harder on the gas and flew around a turn.
    The beams of approaching headlights blinded her. Overreacting, she swerved, skidding the left rear wheel on the shoulder of the road. Heart in her throat, she fishtailed, spun on gravel, then righted the car.
    That’s right, she thought with her heart pumping, wreck the car. That’ll do everybody a lot of good. Cursing herself, Jessica wiped a damp palm on her slacks. Don’t think, sheordered herself. Just drive—it’s less than a mile now. Even as she said it, the car sputtered, then bucked. Frustrated, Jessica pressed down hard on the accelerator only to have the Audi stall, then die.
    “ No! ” Infuriated, she slammed both hands against the steering wheel. The needle on the gas gauge stayed stubbornly on empty. How many times! she demanded. How many times had she told herself to stop and fill up? Knowing it wasn’t the time for self-lectures, she slammed out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the road, lights beaming. She started to run.
     
    Slade stood pressed behind the doorway that led to the back room. He heard the quiet click of the doorknob, then the cheery jingle of bells. He waited, listening to the soft footsteps and gentle breathing. Then there was a coldly patient sigh.
    “Don’t be childish, Michael. It hardly pays to hide when you leave a car out front in plain view. And you should know,” he added softly, “there’s no place you can hide from me.”
    Slade hit the overhead lights as he turned into the room. “Chambers, isn’t it?” he said mildly. “With the fetish for snuffboxes.” He leveled the gun. “We’re closed.”
    With no change of expression, Chambers removed his hat. “You’re the stockboy, aren’t you?” He gave a wheezy chuckle. “How foolish of Michael to send you. But then, he