Strangers

his program of treatment. He had wanted Sunday to himself, so he could review the crucial tape of Saturday's session, and he had said he was not available Monday morning because he intended to see a friend in the hospital. "But you come back at, say, one o'clock Monday afternoon, and we'll begin chipping away at the edges of that memory block - en pantoufles, 'in slippers' as they say, in a relaxed manner."
        This morning he had called her from the hospital to say that his friend was being discharged sooner than expected, and that he, Pablo, would be home by eleven o'clock if she would like to come earlier than planned. "You can help me make lunch."
        Now, disembarking from the elevator and stepping quickly along the short hall to Pablo's apartment, Ginger decided that she would make every effort to control her natural impatience and to settle for making progress en pantoufles, as the magician was determined they would.
        The front door was ajar. Assuming he had left it open for her, she stepped into the foyer. Closing the door, she said, "Pablo?"
        In another room, someone grunted. Something clattered softly. Something thudded to the floor.
        "Pablo?" He did not answer. Moving into the living room, she called out louder than before. "Pablo?"
        Silence.
        One of the library's double doors was open, and a light was on. Ginger entered - and saw Pablo lying face - down on the floor near the Sheraton desk. He had evidently just returned from his visit to his hospitalized friend, for he was still wearing galoshes and an overcoat.
        As she rushed to him and knelt at his side, grim possibilities occurred to her - cerebral hemorrhage, thrombosis, or embolism; massive heart attack - but she was not prepared for what she found when she eased him onto his back. Pablo had been shot high in the chest, and bright red arterial blood welled from the bullet hole.
        His eyes fluttered open, and although they looked unfocused, he seemed to know who she was. Blood bubbled over his lower lip. He got out a single word in an urgent whisper: "Run."
        Her instinctive reaction upon seeing him prone before the desk had been that of a friend and physician: Anguished, she had gone immediately to his aid. But until Pablo said, "Run, Ginger did not understand that her own life might be in jeopardy. Suddenly she realized that she had heard no gunfire, which meant a silencer-equipped pistol. The assailant was no ordinary burglar. Someone infinitely more dangerous. All those considerations flashed through her mind in an instant.
        Her heart pounding, she rose and turned toward the door. The gunman - tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a leather topcoat belted tightly at the waist - came out from behind the door, holding the silencer-equipped pistol. He was big, but surprisingly less threatening in appearance than she had expected. He was her age, clean-cut, with innocent blue eyes and a face unsuited for menace.
        When he spoke, the disparity between his unremarkable appearance and his murderous actions was even greater, for his first words were a tremulous apology of sorts. "Shouldn't have happened. Didn't have to happen, for Christ's sake. I just… I was duping those tapes on a high-speed recorder. That's all I wanted-dupes of the tapes."
        He was pointing to the desk, and for the first time Ginger noticed an open attaché case in which was nestled a compact piece of electronic equipment. Tape cassettes were scattered across the top of the desk, and she knew at once what tapes they were.
        "Let's call an ambulance," she said. She edged toward the phone, but he stopped her by gesturing pointedly and angrily with the gun.
        "High-speed duplication," he said, torn between rage and tears. "I could've made copies of all six of your sessions and been out of here. He wasn't supposed to be home for another fucking hour at least!"
        Ginger grabbed a chair cushion and used it to prop up Pablo's head, so he would not choke on the blood and phlegm in his throat.
        Obviously stunned by what had happened, the gunman said, "He just comes in so quiet, gliding in here like a goddamned ghost."
        Ginger remembered how gracefully and elegantly the magician carried himself, as if each movement was prelude to an act of prestidigitation.
        Pablo coughed, closed his eyes. Ginger wanted to do more for him, but the only remedy was heroic