Locked

I hit him with the phone, an original Bakelite.

I'd give him implausible plot and weak characterisation. He hit the desk, then the deck.

I came to my senses.

I locked the door.

I'd come unnanounced to confront him about the review; it was late, his secretary long gone, the building quiet. No one knew I'd arrived.

Everyone knew he had a weak heart.

I creased the rug, a nasty fall, precipitating an attack?

No, he'd have a coronary then trip, sweeping the desk, heavy phone toppling with him.

I stuffed two heart pills into his mouth, worked his jaw, scattered the rest like seeds.

I arranged evidence, then wiped the scene, pondering how to exit stage left.

The window latch slipped easily.

Ten storeys down.

I heard the window locking above me.

Smiling grimly, leaving my mystery, I climbed.