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Robert became scared that it wasn't moving and that other people in the lift were beginning to become hysterical. Even his parents began to panic although they tried to hide it Robert could see it in their eyes. It took over an hour for the fire brigade to get them out. By that time Robert had become paralysed with fear he could hear his heart beat in his ears he genuinely thought he was going to die. Everyone knew his story and that he never went in them since. That was an important part of his plan.
All morning Robert had to force himself to keep his mind on his work. He kept reminding himself that everything must appear to be normal. Try as he might, though, he couldn't keep his hands from shaking as he wrote out the details of the Lathrop merger.
Mr. Walsh came in at nine, as usual, and instructed Janet that he would be very busy and did not want to be disturbed before noon. Just before entering his office, he turned a bloodshot eye to Robert and snarled, "I want to see you after lunch." From the split-second pause in the work being done, Robert knew the others had heard Mr. Walsh's remark.
At eleven-thirty Robert rose from his desk, announced to Janet that he was going to lunch, and made a quiet exit, as he always did.
That day, though, instead of turning right and heading toward the stairwell, Robert turned left and walked to the outer entrance of Mr. Walsh's office.
With tensed white knuckles he lightly tapped on the door, one, two, three times. No answer, but then he didn't expect one.
Slowly, silently, Robert turned the doorknob, around which he had carefully wrapped a handkerchief. Thanks to books and television, even someone like Robert Beck knew enough to avoid leaving fingerprints. Robert entered the office and closed the door behind him with a light click.
Behind the huge mahogany desk in his genuine leather swivel chair sat Mr. Walsh, puffy eyes closed, podgy hands folded across his stomach. How peaceful he looked in sleep, Robert thought. Last night must have been a bad one; his flaccid face was pasty.
Robert trod silently across the carpeted floor until he stood directly in front of Mr. Walsh. Taking the small pistol from his pocket, Robert raised it and aimed it with both hands. The barrel of the little revolver was no more than three feet from his boss's head. Closing his eyes, Robert pulled the trigger.
There was a sharp crack and Mr. Walsh's head recoiled a little, cushioned by the swivel chair's headrest. A small hole appeared in the center of the businessman's forehead.
For an instant Robert froze. He knew Mr. Walsh's office was soundproof, and the pistol made a lot less noise than he had expected, but still he waited for the door to the inner office to open and a curious staff to enter. But the door remained closed.
More calmly than he ever believed possible, Robert put the gun back into his pocket and left Mr. Walsh's office, careful again to leave no fingerprints.
Once in the hallway, Robert did something he hadn't done in over thirty years: He got on an elevator.