A door opened on a set of back stairs too narrow for the storage of Indians. Here, with glue, empty beer bottles — most of them green, some clear — had been fixed to the flanking walls and to the ceiling, hundreds upon hundreds of them, like three-dimensional wallpaper.
Although the malty residue in all the containers had years ago evaporated, the stairwell still smelled of stale beer.
“Come along, Mr. Banks! Not much farther. You’ll see why north of a million is a fair price.”
Preston followed the Toad to the top of the glass-lined stairs. The upper hall had been narrowed by an accumulation of junk similar to the collection on the lower floor.
They passed rooms from which the doors had been removed. Annexes of the primary first-floor maze appeared to have been established in these spaces.
The Toad’s bedroom still featured a door. The chamber past this threshold had not been transformed into an anthill of tunnels as had so much of the house. Two nightstands with lamps flanked the large unmade bed. A dresser, a chiffonier, and a chifforobe provided the Toad with ample storage space for his bib overalls.
The threat of normalcy was held at bay, however, by a collection of straw hats that hung on nails from every wall, ceiling to floor, Straw hats for men, women, and children. Straw hats in every known style, for every need from that of the working farmhand to that of a lady wanting a suitable chapeau to attend church on a hot summer Sunday. Straw hats in natural hues and in pastel tints, in various stages of deterioration, hung in overlapping layers, until Preston almost began to forget they were hats, to see the repetitive shapes of the crowns as a sort of wraparound upholstery like the acoustic-friendly walls of a recording studio or radio station.
A second collection cluttered the room: scores upon scores of both plain and fancy walking sticks. Simple walnut canes with rubber tips and sleek curved handles. Hickory canes with straight shafts but with braided-wood handles. Oak, mahogany, maple, cherry, and stainless-steel models, some with plain handles, others graced by figured grips of cast brass or carved wood. Lacquered black canes with silvery tips, the perfect thing for a tuxedoed Fred Astaire, hung next to those white canes that were reserved for the blind.
The canes were stored in groups in several umbrella stands, but they also hung from the sides of the dresser, the chiffonier, and the chifforobe. Instead of cloth panels, curtains of canes dangled from the drapery rods.
At one window, the Toad had previously unhooked a dozen canes from the rod, revealing a portion of the pane. He’d also rubbed the glass half clean with his hand.
He led Preston to this view and pointed northeast across a weedy field, toward the two-lane road. A little winded from the journey, he said, “Mr. Banks, you see the woods yonder, past the county blacktop? Now look seventy yards easterly of the entrance here to my farm, and you’ll damn well see a car pulled in among the trees over there.”
Preston was confused and disappointed, having hoped that the Toad’s proof of a healing close encounter might be an alien artifact obviously not manufactured on this world or snapshots of strange three-eyed beings — or, if the evidence was obviously fake, then something worth a good laugh.
“That’s the sneaky junk car she used to disguise herself when first she come here, pretendin’ not to be big-time movie people.”
Preston frowned. “She?”
“Miss Janet Hitchcock, like I told you, all the way here from Paramount Pictures down in California, your stompin’ grounds. She’s watchin’ my place so she can see who her competition is!”
A pair of high-power binoculars rested on the windowsill. The Toad handed them to Preston.
The binoculars felt greasy. He winced and almost cast them aside in disgust.
“Proof, sir,” said the Toad. “Proof I’m not inventin’ all this whoop-de-do about Paramount Pictures, proof I’m bein’ foursquare fair with you, businessman to businessman, with full respect. It’s just a speck of brightness in among the pines, but you’ll see.”
Curious, Preston raised the field glasses and focused on the car in the woods. Even though the vehicle was white, it was tucked among the high-skirted trees, shrouded by shadows, and not easy to see in any useful detail.
The Toad said, “She was leanin’ against the front of it earlier, watchin’ to where my driveway meets the county road, hopin’ she’d see who you might be.”
The woman no longer leaned against the car. Maybe she had gotten into the vehicle. The interior was dark. He couldn’t tell whether someone sat behind the wheel.
“Whatever outfit you’re with down there in California, I’m sure you’re well connected to the movie world entire, you go to all the same parties as the stars, so you’ll recognize a true big wheel like Miss Janet Hitchcock of Paramount Pictures.”
When he located the woman, Preston recognized her, all right. She stood apart from the car, not as deep in the shadows as it was, leaning now against a tree, identifiable even in the drowned light of the pending storm. Michelina Teresa Bellsong — ex-con, apprentice alcoholic, job-seeker without hope, niece to senile old Aunt Gen, cheap slut trying to reform, guilt-racked wretch looking for meaning in her stupid sorry little life, self-appointed savior of Leilani, would-be exhumer of Lukipela, self-deluded dragonslayer, useless nosy meddlesome bitch.
Still watching Micky Bellsong, Preston said, “Yes, it’s Janet Hitchcock, sure enough. Looks like I’m not going to be able to avoid a bidding war, Mr.”—and he almost said Mr. Toad—“Mr. Teelroy.”
“Wasn’t ever the case I was schemin’ toward that, Mr. Banks. I just wanted you to know fair enough that you had competition. I’m not lookin’ for more than my story’s rightly worth.”
“I understand, of course. I’d like to make you an offer before I leave today, but it’s my preference, in these cases, to present the deal in the presence of the whole family, since this much money will affect all of you profoundly. Is there a wife, sir, and children? And what of your parents?”
“Ma and Pa, they’re both long gone, Mr. Banks.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And I never did marry, not that I was wholly without some good opportunities.”
Still focused on the distant woman, Preston said, “So it’s just you here alone in this rambling house.”
“Just me,” said the Toad. “And much as I surely am a committed bachelor, I must admit… it gets awful lonely sometimes.” He sighed. “Just me.”
“Good,” said Preston, turning away from the window and, with savage force, smashing the heavy binoculars into the Toad’s face.
The blow produced a wet crunch, a strangled sob, and the man’s immediate collapse.
Preston threw the binoculars on the disheveled bed, where he would be able to find them later.
Hooked on the windowsill were several canes. He seized one that featured a bronze wolf’s head for a handle.
On his back, flat on the floor, the Toad gazed up, his hideous nose now shattered and more repulsive than before, his unkempt beard bejeweled with blood, his blotchy face suddenly every bit as pale as it had previously been flushed.
Holding the cane by the wrong end, Preston raised it overhead.
The Toad lay stunned, perhaps disoriented, but then his eyes cleared, and when he saw what was coming, he spoke with tremulous emotion and with obvious relief: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Preston assured him, and hammered the wolf’s head into the center of the man’s brow. More than once. Maybe half a dozen times. The cane cracked but didn’t come apart.
When he was certain that he had killed the Toad, he threw the damaged walking stick on the bed beside the binoculars. Later, he would wipe both objects clean of fingerprints.