The Key to Midnight

small warehouse to store the overflow.
        He didn't share the house only with inanimate objects. A butler, cook, two maids, and a chauffeur all lived in, and he entertained frequently. He didn't like to be alone, because solitude gave him too much time to think about certain terrible decisions he had made over the years, certain dark roads taken.
        The telephone rang. The back line, a number known only to two or three people.
        Chelgrin rushed to his desk and snatched up the receiver. 'Hello.'
        'Senator, what a lovely night for it,' said Peterson.
        'Miserable night,' Chelgrin disagreed.
        'It's going to rain,' Peterson said. 'I like rain. It washes the world clean, and we need that now and then. It's a damned dirty world we live in. Enough?'
        Chelgrin hesitated.
        'Looks clean to me,' said Peterson.
        Chelgrin was studying the video display of an electronic device to which the phone was connected. It would reveal the presence of any tap on the line. 'Okay,' Chelgrin said at last.
        'Good. We've got this month's report.'
        Chelgrin could hear his own pounding heartbeat. 'Where do yoii want to meet?'
        'We haven't used the market for a while.'
        'When?'
        "Thirty minutes.'
        'I’ll be there.'
        'Of course you will, dear Tom,' Peterson said with amusement. 'I know you wouldn't miss it for the world.'
        'I'm not a dog on a leash,' Chelgrin said. 'Don't think you can jerk me around.'
        "Dear Tom, don't get yourself in a snit.'
        Chelgrin hung up. His hands were shaking.
        He went to the wet bar in one corner of the study and poured two ounces of Scotch. He drank it in two long swallows, without benefit of ice or water.
        'God help me,' he said softly.

----

    42
        
        Chelgrin had given the servants the day off, so he drove himself to the market in his dark-gray Cadillac. He could have driven any of three Rolls-Royces, a Mercedes sports coupe, an Excalibur, or one of the other cars in his collection. He chose the Cadillac because it was the least conspicuous of the group.
        He arrived at the rendezvous five minutes early. The supermarket was the cornerstone of a small shopping center, and even at eight o'clock on a blustery winter night, the place was busy. He parked at the end of a row of cars, sixty or seventy yards from the market entrance. After waiting a couple of minutes, he got out, locked the doors, and stood self-consciously near the rear bumper.
        He turned up the collar of his gray Bally jacket, pulled down his leather cap, and kept his distinctive face away from the light. He was trying to appear casual, but he feared that he looked like a man playing at spies.
        If he didn't take precautions, however, he would be recognized. He wasn't merely a United States Senator from Illinois: He aspired to the office of the Presidency, and he spent a lot of hours in front of television cameras and in the poor company of obnoxious but powerful reporters, laying the foundation for a campaign in either two or six years, depending on the fate of the new man who'd won the White House just two years ago. (Considering the sanctimonious and self-righteous lecturing, the numerous episodes of undisguised political duplicity, and the incredible bungling that marked the new man's first twenty-two months at the helm, Chelgrin was confident that his chance would come in two years rather than six.) If someone recognized him, the meeting with Peterson would have to be rescheduled for another night.
        Two rows away, the lights of a Chevrolet snapped on, and the car pulled from its parking slip. It came down one aisle, around another, and stopped directly beside the senator's Cadillac.
        Chelgrin opened the front passenger door, bent down, and looked inside. He knew the driver from other nights -a short, stout fellow with a prim mouth and thick glasses -but he didn't know his name. He had never asked. Now he got in and buckled his seatbelt.
        'Anybody on your tail?' the driver asked.
        'If there were, I wouldn't be here.'
        'We'll play it safe just the same.'
        For ten minutes they traveled a maze of residential streets. The driver watched the rearview mirror as much as the road ahead.
        Finally, when it was clear that they were not being followed, they went to a roadhouse seven miles from the supermarket. The