“All right, all right. Galloway’s ulcer started kicking up and he went to the hospital. How does that sound?”
“Splendid,” Harry said, beaming.
When Hepburn returned, a conference was held and it was decided that Turee, the brainiest, and Harry, the soberest, should drive back to Wiarton and call Galloway’s house to test the ulcer theory.
The road wound along the cliffs above the bay and Turee had to concentrate on his driving while Harry, in case the ulcer theory might be incorrect, kept his eye peeled for signs of a Cadillac in distress. They met only two cars, neither one a Cadillac.
By the time they reached the town of Wiarton, nearly all the lights were out, but they finally located a pay phone in the lobby of a small tourist hotel which was just opening for the season. Since both the men were wearing fishing clothes, the manager of the hotel assumed they were customers and treated them very cordially until he learned they merely wanted to use the telephone. When, in addition to suffering a disappointment, he had to make change for five dollars, he became quite bitter about the whole thing and sat behind the desk glowering as Turee stepped into the phone booth.
It required ten minutes or more to put the call through to Galloway’s house in Toronto, and then the connection was bad and the conversation was punctuated by what sounded like static.
“Esther?”
“Ron?”
“No, this is not Ron. Is that you, Esther?”
“Just who is this, please?”
“Ralph. Ralph Turee. Is that you, Esther?”
“Yes,” Esther replied, rather coldly, since she’d been awakened from a sound sleep and even under the best of circumstances didn’t care much for Turee, Turee’s wife, or any of the little Turees. “Isn’t it rather late?”
“I can’t hear you. Would you speak up?”
“I’m practically screaming already.”
“Listen, Esther — what in hell is that noise? Operator, operator, do something about that noise — Esther? Are you there? Well, listen a minute. Is Ron all right?”
“Of course he’s all right.”
“No attack of indigestion or anything?”
“Are you drunk, by any chance?” This was one of Esther’s favorite questions and after long practice she read the line with spirited contempt, rolling the r in drunk and broadening the a in chance.
“I am not drunk,” Turee shouted. “Why should I be?”
“I’m sure you have reasons. Now what’s all this about Ron?”
“Well, it’s like this. Harry’s up here at the lodge with the rest of us.”
“So?”
“Ron hasn’t arrived. Harry drove up alone in his own car. He had a business appointment to keep in Mimico and he told Thelma to tell Ron not to wait for him but to come up to the lodge by himself and Harry would get here when he could. Well, Harry got here all right, but Ron hasn’t. The fellows were beginning to get worried so we thought we’d better call you.”
Esther suffered from a chronic case of jealousy, and the first image that flashed through her mind was not of Galloway lying dead somewhere in a car wreck, but of Galloway lying cosily beside Thelma in a bed. She said, “Maybe Ron was delayed.”
“Where?”
“In Weston.”
“How?”
“How? Ask Harry. He’s married to the woman.”
“Now that,” Turee said irritably, “is the silliest remark in history. What’s got into you, Esther?”
“Just an idea.”
“Honest to God, I gave you credit for better sense. I can’t say more than that right now because I’m shouting as it is and Harry’s not ten feet away. Do you understand?”
“Naturally.”
“Listen, Esther...”
At this point the operator’s voice cut in and demanded another ninety cents. Turee deposited the money, cursing audibly. “Are you still there, Esther?”
“Naturally.”
“I think you should call the police.”
“Why? It might embarrass poor Ron. He’s rather sensitive about being caught by the cops in bed with another man’s wife.”
“For Pete’s sake, Esther, get off that kick, will you? This might be serious. Ron could be lying in some hospital or even a morgue.”
“He carries all kinds of identification in his wallet. If there’d been an accident I would have been notified.”
“Then you’re not worried?”
“Worried? Yes, I’m worried, but it’s not the kind of worry I want to share with the police department.”
“I’m amazed at your attitude, Esther, genuinely amazed.”
“You go right on being amazed, I can’t stop you.”
“But what about Ron?”
“Ron,” she said dryly, “will be home in due course with a perfectly believable story which I may even believe, for a time. You needn’t concern yourself about Ron. Wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, I assure you he’s not concerning himself about you, or me, or Harry, or anyone else.”
“That could mean he’s dead.”
“The trouble with you and the fellows is that you all get maudlin when you’ve been drinking.”
The statement contained such a large element of truth that Turee didn’t attempt to refute it. “I must say that’s not a very friendly remark.”
“I’m not feeling too friendly at the moment. Now look. You and the fellows went up to the lodge for a weekend of fishing. Or whatever. If Ron shows up here I’ll tell him you’re worried and ask him to wire you. If he shows up there, you might do the same for me. Right?”
“Right,” Turee agreed, though he didn’t feel it was right at all. The whole thing was wrong, Galloway’s absence, Esther’s attitude, Winslow’s wild, drunken sobbing. What a weekend this is shaping up to be, he thought. I ought to turn right around and drive home.
The air in the telephone booth had become hot and stale and when Turee opened the door and stepped out into the lobby he was sweating, red-eyed and ill-tempered.
Harry was standing beside the window looking intently out over the bay, as if there were many interesting things to be seen. But the bay was dark, nothing could be seen, and Turee knew that Harry had been listening — listening and perhaps hearing.
“Well, well,” Turee said with an attempt at heartiness. “It seems as though we were getting all discombobulated for nothing.”
“Ron’s at home, then?”
“Not exactly. But I assure you Esther’s not in the least worried about his well-being.”
“That sounds as if she’s worried about something else.”
“Oh, you know Esther. She’s hatched the idea that Ron went off on a bat. Who can tell, maybe she’s right.”
“Maybe.” Harry turned back to the window, his jaw clenched so tight that his voice seemed to be coming from some other place, like a ventriloquist’s. “I thought I heard you say something about me.”
“You? Oh, certainly. I explained about the mix-up in Weston, how you had to keep your business appointment and...”
“I don’t mean that.”
“All right,” Turee said quietly. “What else did you hear?”
“You told Esther you couldn’t talk any more about something because I was only ten feet away.”
“That’s right.”
“What were you referring to?”
“Well, it’s like this.” Turee was an inexperienced liar, and the circumstances — the wearing off of the drinks he’d had, the lateness of the hour, and the presence of the hotel manager behind the desk, wide-eyed with curiosity — contributed to his awkwardness. “The fact is, Esther had a suspicion that you and Ron went off on a bat together.”
“Esther should know me better than that. In the old days, well, perhaps, she might have had a point, but I’m a married man now.”