You're All Alone (illustrated) by Fritz Leiber

the two big silver pins piercing her mannish gray sports hat. And she seemed utterly unconcerned with the people around her. Carr felt strangely cowed.
    But the situation was impossible, he told himself. You didn’t let someone search your desk without objecting. Tom Elvested, apparently busy with some papers at the next desk, must be wondering what the devil the woman was up to. So must the others.
    Just then she dropped a folder back, shut a drawer, and stood up, Carr faded back into the men’s room. He waited perhaps fifteen seconds, then cautiously stepped out. The woman was no longer in sight. The outside corridor was empty. He ran to the head of the stairs and spotted the gray sports coat going through the revolving door. He hurried down the stairs, hesitated, then darted into the small tobacco and magazine store opening on the lobby. He could probably still catch a glimpse of her through the store’s show window. It would be less conspicuous than dashing right out on the sidewalk.
    The store was empty except for the proprietor and a rather portly and well-dressed man whose back was turned. The latter instantly attracted Carr’s attention by a startlingly nervy action. Without a word or a glance at the proprietor, he leaned across the counter, selected a pack of cigarettes, tore it open from top to bottom with a twisting motion, selected one of the undamaged cigarettes and dropped the rest on the floor.
    The proprietor didn’t say anything.
    Carr’s snap-reaction was that at last he’d seen a big-shot racketeer following his true impulses. Then he followed the portly man’s gaze to the street door and saw a patch of familiar gray approaching.
    THE LOBBY door was too far away. Carr sidled behind a magazine rack just as he heard the street door opening.
    The first voice was the woman’s. It was as disagreeably brassy as her manner. “I searched his desk. There wasn’t anything suspicious.”
    “And you did a good job?” The portly man’s voice was a jolly one. “Took your time? Didn’t miss anything?”
    “Of course.”
    “Hmm.” Carr heard the whir of a lighter and the faint crackle of a cigarette igniting. His face was inches away from a line of luridly covered magazines.
    “What are you so worried about?” The woman sounded quarrelsome. “Can’t you take my word for it? I checked on them both yesterday. She didn’t blink when I slapped her.”
    “Worry pays, Hackman.” The portly man sounded even pleasanter. “We have strong reason to suspect the girl. We’ve seen her—or a very similar girl—with the small dark man with glasses. I respect your intelligence, Hackman, but I’m not completely satisfied. We’ll do another check on the girl tonight.”
    “Where?”
    “At the apartment.”
    “But we don’t even know if it’s the same girl.”
    “Perhaps we can find out tonight. There may be photographs.”
    “Pft!” Now the woman was getting really snappish. “I think it’s just your desire for her that keeps you doing these things. You hate to realize she’s no use to you. You want to keep alive a dream.”
    The portly man chuckled. “Very often prudence and self-indulgence go hand in hand, Hackman. We’ll do another check on her.”
    “But aren’t we supposed to have any time for fun?”
    “Fun must be insured, Hackman. Hardly be fun at all, if you felt someone might spoil it. And then if some other crowd should catch on to us through this girl . . . No, we’ll do another check.”
    “Oh, all right!” The woman’s voice expressed disgusted resignation. “Though I suppose it’ll mean prowling around for hours with the hound.”
    “Hmm. No, I hardly think the hound will be necessary.”
    Carr, staring sightlessly at the pulp and astrology magazines and the bosomy paper-bound books, felt his flesh crawl.
    “Why not let Dris do it?” he heard the woman suggest. “He’s had the easy end lately.”
    The portly man laughed dispassionately. “Do you think I’m going to