I glanced back toward the village and through the darkness of the nightmare trees I could catch an occasional glimpse of a swaying street lamp. No one, I was certain, could have seen me come here. I'd switched off the headlights before I turned off the highway and had crawled along the twisting cart track that led in to the shack with no more than a sickly moonlight to help me on my way.
Like a thief in the night, I thought. And that, of course, was what I was — except I had no intent of stealing.
I walked up the path that led to the crazy door fashioned out of uneven slabs of salvaged lumber, dosed by a metal hasp guarded by a heavy padlock.
I tried one of the padlock keys and it fitted and the lock snicked back. I pushed on the door and it creaked open.
I pulled the flashlight I had taken from the glove compartment of the car out of my pocket and thumbed its switch. The fan of light thrust out, spearing through the doorway. There was a table and three chairs, a stove against one wall, a bed against another.
The room was clean. There was a wooden floor, covered by scraps of linoleum carefully patched together. The linoleum was so thoroughly scrubbed that it fairly shone. The walls had been plastered and then neatly papered with scraps of wallpaper, and with a complete and cynical disregard for any colour scheme.
I moved farther into the room, swinging the light slowly back and forth. At first it had been the big things I had seen — the stove, the table and the chairs, the bed. But now I began to become aware of the other things and the little things.
And one of these smaller things, which I should have seen at once, but hadn't, was the telephone that stood on the table.
I shone the light on it and spent long seconds making sure of what I'd known to start with — for it was apparent at a glance that the phone was without a dial and had no connection cord. And it would have done no good if it had had a cord, for no telephone line had ever been run to this shack beside the swamp.
Three of them, I thought — three of them I knew of. The one that had been in my office and another in Gerald Sherwood's study and now this one in the shack of the village bum.
Although, I told myself, not quite so much a bum as the village might believe. Not the dirty slob most people thought he was. For the floor was scrubbed and the walls were papered and everything was neat.
Me and Gerald Sherwood and Stiffy Grant — what kind of common bond could there be among us? And how many of these dialless phones could there be in Millville; for how many others of us did that unknown bond exist?
I moved the light and it crept across the bed with its patterned quilt — not rumpled, not messed up, and very neatly made. Across the bed and to another table that stood beyond the bed. Underneath the table were two cartons. One of them was plain, without any lettering, and the other was a whisky case with the name of an excellent brand of Scotch writ large across its face.
I walked over to the table and pulled the whisky case out from underneath it. And in it was the last thing in the world I had expected. It was not an emptied carton packed with personal belongings, not a box of junk, but a case of whisky.
Unbelieving, I lifted out a bottle and another and another, all of them still sealed. I put them back in the case again and lowered myself carefully to the floor, squatting on my heels. I felt the laughter deep inside of me, trying to break out — and yet it was, when one came to think of it, not a laughing matter.
This very afternoon Stiffy had touched me for a dollar because, he'd said, he'd not had a drink all day. And all the time there had been this case of whisky, pushed underneath the table.
Were all the outward aspects of the village bum no more than camouflage? The broken, dirty nails; the rumpled, thread-bare clothing; the unshaven face and the unwashed neck; the begging of money for a drink; the seeking of dirty little piddling jobs to earn the price of food — was this all a sham?
And if it were a masquerade, what purpose could it serve? I pushed the case back underneath the table and pulled out the other carton. And this one wasn't whisky and neither was it junk. It was telephones.
I hunkered, staring at them, and it now was crystal clear how that telephone had gotten on my desk. Stiffy had put it there and then had waited for me, propped against the building. Perhaps he had seen me coming down the street as he came out of the office and had done the one thing that would seem entirely natural to explain his waiting there. Or it might equally well have been just plain bravado. And all the time he has been laughing at me deep inside himself.
But that must be wrong, I told myself. Stiffy never would have laughed at me. We were old and trusted friends and he'd never laugh at me, he. would never do anything to fool me.
This was a serious business, too serious for any laughing to be done.
If Stiffy had put the phone there, had he also been the one who had come back and taken it? Could that have been the reason he had come to my place — to explain to me why the phone was gone?
Thinking of it, it didn't seem too likely.
But if it had not been Stiffy, then there was someone else involved.
There was no need to lift out the phones, for I knew exactly what I'd find. But I did lift them out and I wasn't wrong.
They had no dials and no connection cords.
I got to my feet and for a moment stood uncertain, staring at the phone standing on the table, then, making up my mind, strode to the table and lifted the receiver.
"Hello," said the voice of the businessman. "What have you to report?"
"This isn't Stiffy," I said. "Stiffy is in a hospital. He was taken sick."
There was a moment's hesitation, then the voice said, "Oh, yes, it's Mr Bradshaw Carter, isn't it. So nice that you could call."
"I found the phones," I said. "Here in Stiffy's shack. And the phone in my office has somehow disappeared. And I saw Gerald Sherwood. I think perhaps, my friend, it's time that you explained."
"Of course," the voice said. "You, I suppose, have decided that you will represent us."
"Now," I said, "just a minute, there. Not until I know about it. Not until I've had a chance to give it some consideration."
"I tell you what," the voice said, "you consider it and then you call us back. What was this you were saying about Stiffy being taken somewhere?"
"A hospital," I said. "He was taken sick."
"But he should have called us," the voice said, aghast. "We would have fixed him up. He knew good and well…"
"He maybe didn't have the time. I found him…"
"Where was this place you say that he was taken?"
"Elmore. To the hospital at…"
"Elmore. Of course. We know where Elmore is."
"And Greenbriar, too, perhaps." I hadn't meant to say it; I hadn't even thought it. It just popped into my mind, a sudden, unconscious linking of what was happening here and the project that Alf had talked to me about.
"Greenbriar? Why, certainly. Down in Mississippi. A town very much like Millville. And you will let us know? When you have decided, you will let us know?"
"I'll let you know," I promised.
"And thank you very much, sir. We shall be looking forward to your association with us." And then the line went dead.
Greenbriar, I thought. It was not only Millville. It might be the entire world. What the hell, I wondered, could be going on?
I'd talk to Alf about it. I'd go home and phone him now. Or I could drive out and see him. He'd probably be in bed, but I would get him up. I'd take along a bottle and we'd have a drink or two.