That put Mrs. Becky’s back up considerably, and she let fly, “And how, pray tell, does her promising to buy telephones for this little fly-speck of a town do that?”
“Why, can’t you see?” the sheriff asked. “She’s trying to warn this ghost not to fool with her because if he or she does, they’ll be a lot more than seven telephones around to upset them.”
You could almost hear the juices bubbling inside Mrs. Becky’s head after being talked to so high handed. Without wasting a word, she sashayed out of Cedric Whipplemore’s parlor as if she had far better ways to pass the time than listening to her husband blow hot and cold.
After his wife left, the sheriff sent everyone else packing, too, with instructions to stay away from their telephones.
“Even if they ring?” Alfreda asked.
“Especially if they ring,” the sheriff answered with his steely voice, the one he trots out whenever he wants to promote law and order. “Go on now. Git. Injun Joe and I have our work to do.”
So the two of us stayed behind, all alone with a dead man. I can’t says it was where I would have chosen to spend my morning, but now and then a corpse, especially a ripe one, has been known to liven up the sheriff. And that was always a sight worth seeing.
First thing the sheriff did was take a seat directly across from Cedric, hold the unfinished glass of brandy up to his nose, and make a face. Sniffing the open bottle of brandy, he made the same face again.
“If I was you,” the sheriff advised, “I’d steer clear of this stuff. Don’t smell right.”
Then he went to studying the telephone receiver in Cedric’s hand, and the wire leading to the phone box on the wall behind the dead man, and finally he bent over and took a peek beneath the table. I didn’t bother following his lead ’cause I’d already checked under there. And besides, he was just testing me. If I’d looked, he’d have given me one of those gotcha winks. Straightening back up, he said, “I do have one little question, Deputy. How did this ghost manage to ring up Cedric? I mean, when did Mr. Bell start installing these dojiggers in the Hereafter?”
“Who said there was one there?” I asked.
“Well where else is this ghost calling from?”
He had me there, so I kept my thoughts to myself while we streeled down to the Dewitt Drug Emporium to find out more about how these calls from the other side were getting patched through to the here and now.
The Dewitt Drug Emporium wasn’t anywhere near as big as it sounds. The sign out front was barely wide enough to hold its name, and the store wasn’t much wider, though it was long. Mostly it was filled with glass cases and cabinets and stout smells that kind of grabbed at you as you passed by.
Way at the back there was a narrow counter where Rutherford stood around all day, patting down his fast-thinning hair and talking to himself rather loud. Behind that counter was a tiny room where Rutherford’s assistant lived. That assistant, whose name was Archibald Dewitt, also happened to be Rutherford’s cousin, though the two look about as much alike as December and July do. Archibald was a little bit of a fella, all ears and Adam’s apple, with a full head of hair that needed wetting down every hour or so. And he was jittery. Maybe because of the way Rutherford was always barking at him to move faster.
“The sheriff wants to know about the telephone,” Rutherford announced about five times louder than need be as we traipsed into Archibald’s living quarters. There was a cot, chair, and a couple of hooks for his clothes, and on one wall hung a telephone switchboard with an old kerosene lantern burning above it.
My first good look at the switchboard nearly stole my breath away. The thing brought to mind a grinning skeleton. But once you got used to the tangle of wires and brass facing you, it wasn’t anywhere near so scary, more strange and wonderful, in a complicated sort of way. Archibald glanced from the sheriff to me and back again while clearing his throat three or four times before managing to ask, “Cedric?”
“That’s right,” Rutherford barked. “So what’s on your mind, Sheriff? Those of us still living would kind of like to know.”
“For starters, how’s this monstrosity work?” The sheriff was standing nose-to-nose with the switchboard, looking as though he was about to tug on one of its wires.
“Well,” Archibald started out, doing his best to pull the sheriff’s hand back before he broke something, “whoever wants to make a call cranks up their telephone’s handle and picks up their receiver. That rings that bell up there.” He pointed to a little brass box atop the switchboard. “I pick up the receiver on my end here and ask who’s there.” He demonstrated. “They tell me, and I say how do and ask who they want to talk to, and they—”
Right about then the drug emporium’s front door opened and some lady yoo-hooed for help. Rutherford waved for Archibald to head out front and see to the customer.
“Hold on,” the sheriff said. “I got a couple a quick questions for your man here, and then he can go sell your lozenges. So you talked to the ghost before connecting it up to Cedric, right?”
“Had to,” Archibald reluctantly agreed.
“What’d it have to say?”
“He asked to speak to Cedric. Real polite like.”
“So it was a he?”
“Think so, though it’s hard to tell on these things. Most everyone who owns one is hard of hearing and generally shouts and the connections ain’t much good, crackle all the time, ’specially if it’s storming.”
“All right, all right,” the sheriff said, not liking all the excuses. “Answer me this. Can you at least tell where it was calling from?”
“Not unless I recognize the voice.”
The sheriff ground his teeth a bit before saying, “How about this. Could you tell whether it was the same ghost calling every time?”
Archibald hemmed and hawed a bit before admitting, “Not for sure.”
“Well thanks for muddying the waters up as much as you could,” the sheriff said. “As big a help as you’ve been, maybe you should get on with your drugstore work.”
Archibald took those lumps kind of hard and shoved off toward the front of the store as best he could. Soon as he was gone, the sheriff turned to Rutherford and whispered, “Can he be trusted?”
“What kind of a question’s that?” Rutherford boomed back.
“The kind a sheriff has to ask from time to time.”
That soured the druggist plenty but did drag out the following confession in a somewhat lower voice, “If you ask me, he’s too dang-blamed trustworthy. Got to count everything three ways from Sunday to make sure it’s accurate, that’s Archibald’s way.”
“Fair ’nough,” the sheriff allowed. “Joe,” he went on, giving me a start because I’d almost forgotten I was part of the party, “you got any questions?”
Figuring I had to say something or risk looking a complete fool, I come out with, “You ever use this switchboard?”
“’Course,” Rutherford blared. “If Archibald’s out making deliveries, I have to. And a fat lot of bother it is too. I can’t hardly hear what they’re saying.”
“So Archibald handles most of it?” I said. “’Specially at night?”
“That’s right. Why do you think I let him live back here for free?”
“All right, Joe,” the sheriff butted in, “I think that’s enough of that. No need to get the citizenry all up in arms. Why don’t you head over to the boneyard and see if there’s any ghosts who’ll confess to this business. And if you strike out there, well, check up on all the other spooks with access to one of these telephones. I’ll catch up to you later, after I ask Rutherford here a couple of questions about something ailing me.”