On a clear summer morning, at 5:37, Victor Dermott suddenly woke up sweating with fear. Victor Dermott was over thirty-eight years old. He was a tall, dark-haired man with a solid build. Sometimes people mistook him for Gregory Peck and asked him for an autograph. In any case, he had achieved a certain success in life as well. In the past ten years, Dermott had written four quite good plays, which were staged successfully on Broadway and even in some European capitals. That success in no way spoiled Dermott. Those who knew him considered him an excellent man. He married successfully a charming woman of twenty-eight—one who adored him just as he adored her. They had a child.
Two months before that sunny morning…