The Elimination Service

The visitor should never have been allowed past the reception desk. Mr. Ferguson only received guests by prior appointment, except for those with matters of extreme importance. Ferguson was a man who valued time as gold. But his secretary, Miss Dale, was young and impressionable. The visitor — an elderly, dignified man dressed in an expensive suit and leaning on a cane — looked every bit the part of someone important. Assuming he must be, Miss Dale ushered him straight into Ferguson’s office.

“Good morning, sir,” said the visitor as soon as Miss Dale closed the door behind her.

“My name is Esmond. I’m from the Elimination Service.”

He handed Ferguson a small, neat business card.

“I see,” Ferguson said, making no attempt to hide his irritation at Miss Dale’s blunder.

“Elimination Service? I’m afraid I’ve got nothing that needs eliminating.”

He rose, intending to end the conversation.

“Nothing at all?” Esmond asked mildly.

“Absolutely nothing. Thank you for coming, but I have no papers to destroy.”

“In that case,” said Esmond calmly, “you must be on good terms with those around you — your colleagues, your friends, your family, your wife, perhaps?”

“What?” Ferguson frowned. “What business is that of yours?”

“You see, Mr. Ferguson,” Esmond said softly, “our service deals precisely with that sort of thing.”

“Don’t mock me,” snapped Ferguson.

“I’m not mocking you,” Esmond replied, still calm.

“So you mean to tell me,” Ferguson said with a forced smile, “that you… eliminate people?”

“Yes,” Esmond said simply. “I can’t provide written proof — we avoid advertising — but I assure you, our firm is quite reliable.”

Ferguson stared at the man. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call security. Surely it was a joke. It had to be.

“And what do you do with those you eliminate?” he asked.

“That’s our concern,” said Esmond. “What matters is that they disappear.”

“I see, Mr. Esmond. And what business do you have with me?”

“I already told you,” Esmond said, unbothered.

“Enough,” Ferguson barked. “This is nonsense. If I thought you were serious, I’d call the police.”

Esmond sighed and rose. “Then it seems you have no need of our services. You must have an excellent relationship with your wife, friends, and neighbors.”

“My wife? What do you know about my wife?”

“Nothing, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Have you spoken to my neighbors? Look, small quarrels don’t mean anything—”

“I know nothing about your family,” Esmond interrupted, sitting back down smoothly.

“Then why mention my wife?”

“Our records show,” Esmond replied, “that most of our income comes from... marital arrangements.”

“Well, in my case, everything’s fine. My wife and I get along perfectly.”

“Then you certainly don’t need our services,” Esmond said, tucking his cane under his arm.

“Wait a minute,” said Ferguson, pacing the room. “You know, I don’t believe a word you’re saying. But let’s suppose — just suppose — that it’s true. Then, if I were to... request something...”

“Your verbal consent would be enough,” said Esmond.

“And payment?”

“After the job is done.”

“I don’t care,” Ferguson said hastily. “I’m just curious. My wife and I get along fine. We’ve been married seventeen years. Of course, there are quarrels now and then…”

Esmond listened silently.

"You know how it is,” Ferguson went on. “Sometimes you just have to compromise. I’m past the age of romance. I’d never really want to get rid of her—”

“I understand,” Esmond said gently.

“What I mean is,” Ferguson continued, “sometimes I just… don’t want to live with her anymore. She’s loud. She grates on my nerves. She wears me down. You know what I mean?”

“No,” said Esmond simply.

“Impossible! Then why the hell did you come to me?”

Esmond shrugged.

“In any case,” Ferguson said, “I’m too old to rebuild my life. Suppose I weren’t married. Suppose I were involved with Miss Dale, my secretary — that would be pleasant.”

“You’re right,” Esmond said. “Miss Dale is a charming girl. No one could deny that.”

He stood and headed toward the door.

“How can I contact you?” Ferguson asked impulsively.

“You have my card. You may call before five o’clock. But you must decide before then. Time is money, and we adhere strictly to our schedule.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said with a faint smile. “I don’t believe you, you know. I don’t know your terms, either.”

“In your financial position, our terms would seem trivial,” Esmond said.

“And later, if questioned, may I say I never met you?"

“Certainly.”

“If I call, you’ll answer?”

“Until five o’clock. Good day, Mr. Ferguson.”

When Esmond left, Ferguson noticed his hands trembling. The conversation had shaken him more than he’d realized. He told himself to forget it. But he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried to focus on work, Esmond’s words echoed in his head. Somehow, the man had known about his wife — about them. Miss Dale came in with some papers. Ferguson couldn’t help but notice how radiant she looked in the afternoon light.

“Anything else, Mr. Ferguson?” she asked sweetly.

"What? Oh… no, that’s all for now,” he muttered.

When she left, he stared at the door for a long time. He could no longer concentrate.

“Miss Dale,” he said as he put on his coat, “I’ve been called away… things are piling up. Perhaps one evening we could work late together?”

“Of course, Mr. Ferguson,” she said with a smile.

He left the office and drove home. His wife had just finished the laundry.

Mrs. Ferguson — short, plain, and tired-looking — seemed surprised to see him early.

“You’re home early,” she said.

“Yes. Is that a crime?” he snapped, surprised by his own tone.

“Of course not—”

“What, would you rather I drop dead at the office?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then stop nagging.”

“I’m not nagging!” she shouted.

“I’m going to rest,” Ferguson said and climbed the stairs.

At the top, he stopped by the telephone. The clock read a quarter to five. He began pacing. His eyes fell on Esmond’s card. In his mind, Miss Dale’s beautiful face appeared again. He grabbed the receiver.

“Elimination Service? Ferguson speaking.”

“Esmond here. What’s your decision, sir?”

“I…” Ferguson clenched the phone. I have the right, he told himself.

Seventeen years of marriage — seventeen years of good and bad alike.

Was it fair?

“Well, Mr. Ferguson?” Esmond’s voice pressed.

“I… I… No! I don’t need your service!” Ferguson shouted.

“Are you certain, Mr. Ferguson?”

“Yes, I’m certain! You should be locked up! Goodbye!”

He slammed the receiver down, feeling as if a great weight had lifted from his chest. He hurried downstairs. His wife was frying meat — the smell he hated most. But it didn’t matter now. He was ready to let go of the small annoyances. The doorbell rang.

“That must be the laundry service,” Mrs. Ferguson called from the kitchen.

“Would you mind getting it?”

“Sure.”

Ferguson opened the door. Two men in identical uniforms stood there, holding a large sack.

“Laundry service?” Ferguson asked.

“No,” said one of them. “Elimination Service.”

“But I—”

Before he could finish, they twisted his arms, skillfully forced him into the sack, and tied it shut.

“You have no right!” he screamed, but his voice was muffled.

They dragged him along the garden path toward a waiting car.

“Everything all right?” came his wife’s voice from behind.

“Yes, ma’am,” one of the men replied. “Our schedule changed. Your order was moved up to this evening.”

“I’m glad,” Mrs. Ferguson’s voice said cheerfully.

“I spoke to Mr. French from your company earlier today. Now, if you’ll excuse me, dinner’s ready — and I’m expecting company.”

The car pulled away. Ferguson struggled to scream, but the gag silenced him. Tears filled his eyes as a single thought echoed in his head:

“Who is she expecting… and how did I never see it coming?”