The piled books stirred, rose and parted with a gravestone clatter. A head emerged, crowned with dust. A hand came up to hold it. There was a groan.
Mr. Gilbert Wall, of Western Electronics, for it was he, sat up painfully and looked around him. His hair was rumpled, his tanned face covered with grime. There was a large bruise, beginning to turn yellow and blue, around his right eye, which was swollen half shut. Wall touched this bruise, gingerly, and groaned again. "Maniac," he muttered to himself.
He sat up straighter, looking momentarily apprehensive. "Swing?" he called. There was no answer.
Blinking, Wall turned and noticed the brightness against the drawn shades. He started, and looked at his wristwatch. "Quarter after one!" he ejaculated. He looked around wildly, then scrambled to his feet and wincingly went to the bench, His hands did not find what they sought. He glared around once more, half distractedly. "My God!" he said.
On the wall beside the door there was a telephone. Wall saw it and went there. He took the receiver down, heard a dial tone, and dialed "O."
"Operator," he said shakily, "get me Los Angeles." He gave the number. "I want to speak to Nathan MacDonald -- Nathan -- N as in nut -- that's right, and hurry. This is an emergency call."
"My trunks are all busy to Los Angeles," said the voice. "Will you wait, or shall I call you back?"
Wall swallowed. "Operator, this is Roy M. Jackson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation speaking. This is a matter of the national interest. Now put that call through, if you please."
There was a pause. "May I have your identification number, sir?"
Damn. "Operator, I've just been assigned. I do not have an identification number yet. You'll just have to take my word for it. This call must go through."
"Sir, I can't break in on a trunk call unless you have an identification number."
"Give me the head operator."
After a few moments there was another voice. "Sir, this is Miss Timmins. May I help you?"
Wall repeated his story, in a voice of passionate sincerity.
"Sir, one moment, I'll have the operator connect you with the office of the Clearwater chief of police."
"I don't want the police, I want Los Angeles!" said Wall, glaring.
"That's the best I can do for you, sir. If Chief Underwood will vouch for you, or if you would come to the telephone office and show your identification -- "
"Put the Chief on," said Wall. He was thinking: Underwood; now why did that name ring a bell?
By the time he got the man on the line, he had remembered. "Underwood, this is Gilbert Wall speaking." (If the operator was listening in, let her.) "Perhaps you remember me. We met at the Masonic convention two years ago -- Norm Hodge introduced us, do you recall?"
"Why, yes, sure I do, Mr. Wall," said "Underwood's voice. (The old memory never failed; Wall could see the man's face clearly in his mind's eye, jowly and obsequious, a typical disappointed small-town public servant.) "How are you anyway!"
"I'm just fine, and yourself?"
"Well, not too bad! I can't complain. What can I do for you?"
Wall's hand went to the knot in his necktie. "Underwood -- what do they call you, uh -- " (what was the man's name) -- "Ed?"
"Ed, that's right."
"And you'll call me Gil, won't you? Ed, here's my little problem. I'm in Clearwater for the day on some confidential work, I can't tell you over the telephone, but between us two, a Mr. Hoover is very, very interested in this."
"Oh, is that right? Well, you know, anything I can do -- "
"Just one thing if you would, Ed. I've got to make an urgent call to L.A. and it happens the trunks are busy. You see I'm working against time, Ed, you understand, and every minute counts. So if you would call the head operator, Miss Timmins her name is, and more or less vouch for me -- Incidentally, before we hang up, I wonder if we could have dinner together before I leave. I can explain this thing to you then in a little more detail, of course."
"Why, sure, Gil," said Underwood, "that would be great. Now let me see, you want me to tell the head operator -- "
"Just that you know me and so on, and ask her to do us the courtesy of putting my call through. Tell her I'm at - " He read off the number of the phone from the dial card. "And, ah, I'll call for you at home say 'bout eight o'clock, family too, of course, will that be all right?"
"Fine."
"Fine, Ed, I'll be seeing you and thanks a million." Sweating, Wall hung up and rummaged in his pockets for a cigarette.
A few minutes later the telephone rang. Wall snatched the receiver down and said, "Gilbert Wall speaking."
"Mr. Wall, are you the party who called a few minutes ago -- with reference to a call to Los Angeles?"
"Yes, that's correct, operator."
"Sir, that was not the name you gave me then, was it?"
"No," said Wall coldly, "that was my cover name I gave you. I was obliged to give my undercover name to Chief Underwood, to get him to identify me."
There was a slight hesitation. "Well, I'll have the operator put that call through for you," said the voice uncertainly. "Just hold the wire, please."
Wall waited, smoking nervously. He smoothed back his sleek hair with his palm, fingered the gold cufflinks to make sure they were still there, noticed a loose shirt button with annoyance. His billfold was in his breast pocket; fountain pen, keys, notebook, all right.
"Hello?" An unfamiliar male voice.
"I have a call for Mr. Nathan MacDonald. Is he there?"
The right number then; but where was Miss Jacobs, the switchboard operator?
"He's tied up, can I take a message?"
"Hello," said Wall, interrupting the voice of the operator, "this is Gilbert Wall -- let me talk to MacDonald."
"Oh, Mr. Wall. This is Ernie, the office boy. I'll uh, I'll put you right through."
Another pause. "Hello, Gil."
Wall exhaled with relief. "Hello, Nate. Boy have I had a time with this call, but never mind that now. Listen, that Ewing is a maniac. I mean it. First of all, Nate, our tip was correct, that gadget of his, that Gismo really works. There is no doubt about it." The silence struck him as odd. "Hello, Nate? Are you listening?"
"I heard you." Wall could see the heavy-jawed face, all straight lines -- mouth, flat nose, narrow eyes, gray hair combed straight across, tops of the horn-rimmed glasses as straight as a ruler. MacDonald sounded like that, dry, unemotional even in crises, and yet there was something in his tone that bothered Wall.
"Well, it's just as bad as we thought. Or worse. He absolutely would not listen to reason, Nate, and what's worse, the s.o.b. got away from me." Wall touched his temple gingerly, and winced. "It may have been my fault, I more or less lost my head and made some threats, trying to throw a scare into him, and -- He took me by surprise, I never thought he had it in him, and he knocked some books over on me, and that's why I haven't called until now. Nate, I was out cold all night, until just a few minutes ago. I'm still not-myself. Now, my idea is, he'll be hiding out somewhere. He's probably scared witless over all this -- assaulting me, and so on. Do you check me on that, Nate?"