Contents of the Dead Man's Pockets

Contents of the Dead Man s Pockets Jack Finney At the little living-room desk Tom Benecke rolled two sheets of flimsy and a heavier top sheet, carbon paper sandwiched between them, into his portable. Interoffice Memo, the top sheet was headed, and he typed... More

Contents of the Dead Man s Pockets
Jack Finney
At the little living-room desk Tom Benecke rolled two sheets of flimsy and a
heavier top sheet, carbon paper sandwiched between them, into his portable.

Interoffice Memo, the top sheet was headed, and he typed tomorrow s date just below
this; then he glanced at a creased yellow sheet, covered with his own handwriting,
beside the typewriter.
"Hot in here," he muttered to himself.
Then, from the short
hallway at his back, he heard the muffled clang of wire coat hangers in the bedroom
closet, and at this reminder of what his wife was doing he though: Hot, no--guilty
conscience.

He got up, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his gray wash slacks, stepped
to the living-room window beside the desk, and stood breathing on the glass,
watching the expanding circlet of mist, staring down through the autumn night at
Lexington Avenue, eleven stories below.
He was a tall, lean, dark-haired young man
in a pullover sweater, who looked as thou Less