Just before turning out the light, he glanced over again at the table. Why had he done that? He looked at it, and it was meaningless.
He switched off the light, and went upstairs.
Sondgard stood with his back to the wall. The Hunchback of Notre Dame stood in front of him, laughing, holding his curved hands up to let Sondgard know he would strangle him. Sondgard said, “Why do you do this?” But the Hunchback’s answer was drowned out by the sudden pealing of the bells. The Hunchback glared upward, suddenly enraged, crying, “Those are my bells!” The pealing stopped, and Sondgard, puzzled, said, “I thought you were a deaf-mute.” And again just as the Hunchback answered, the bells began to peal. “Why, they’re calling me,” thought Sondgard, surprised that anyone should know he was here, and he sat up, and it was the telephone ringing.
He rubbed his head. “A dream,” he mumbled. He’d been dreaming, but he couldn’t remember what. Something about a stone wall.
The phone took a deep breath, and rang again. It was way out in the living room, so he had to get out of bed, kick into slippers, and shuffle out of the bedroom. He crossed the living room and picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” His voice was fuzzy.
It was Joyce Ravenfield, sounding frightened, “Eric, can you get down here? Right away.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten after six.”
He closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead again. He’d been up till two this morning, listening to the tapes of yesterday’s interviews, with no success. “Where are you?” he asked.
“At the office. No, wait, don’t come here. I’m sorry, Eric, I’m a little shaken. Give me a second.”
“Sure.” He was more than willing. He needed a second himself. He dropped down onto the sofa, and tried to think. It was ten after six and Joyce was calling him on the phone.
And sounding completely rattled.
That was wrong. Joyce was never rattled. Joyce was the most efficient woman alive.
If Joyce was rattled—
“What is it?” he asked. He was suddenly wide awake.
“There’s been another one,” she said. “Larry Temple called me.”
Larry was the college student, working here as a patrolman this summer, and taking the night patrol. Sondgard said, “Another what? Joyce? Another killing, you mean?”
“I’m sorry, Eric, this is so stupid.” She seemed on the verge of tears. “I came all the way down here, I wasted all this time. I just wasn’t thinking, I jumped into the car— It must be twenty minutes now.”
“Take it easy, Joyce, take it easy.”
“I’m trying to take it easy! Larry called me because he doesn’t know your number yet, and he got mine out of the book. And I promised him I’d call you right away, and then instead of that I got all dressed and came down here. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“Another girl, Joyce? For God’s sake, tell me.”
“No, not a girl. You know the Lowndes estate? One of the guards there. They found him this morning, and got hold of Larry, and he called me. And then, like an idiot, I—”
“All right, take it easy. Larry’s still out there?”
“Yes, I... Yes.”
“All right. Call Doc Walsh. And Mike. Tell Mike... Tell him he doesn’t have to come in yet, but stand by. And call Dave and tell him to stay off that damn boat today and near a phone, just in case.” This last was Dave Rand, the Floridian who operated the police launch here in the summer.
“Right, Eric,” she said. “And... Do you want me to call Garrett?”
Sondgard pressed his hand to his forehead. He could feel a splitting headache coming on. The silent phone hissed in his ear, and finally he said, “Do you think I should?”
“I don’t know, Eric. I honestly don’t know.”
He shook his head, not knowing either. “We’ll wait,” he said. “We’ll wait and see.”
“All right, Eric. I’ll stay here at the office, in case you need me for anything.”
“Fine. Call Larry, tell him I’m on my way.”
“I will.”
Sondgard hung up and pushed himself to his feet. He was awake now, but the headache was coming on stronger and stronger. He padded back across the living room and into the bathroom, and drank down two aspirin with a glass of water. Then he stripped out of his pajamas and took a quick cold shower. He had a lean hard body, had been slender and hard-fleshed all his life, despite his sedentary primary occupation. It was only in the summertime that he got any exercise at all.
Out of the shower in less than three minutes, he hurriedly scrubbed himself dry, padded nude back to the bedroom, and dressed. The four rooms of his flat — living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen — formed the four quarters of a square, with all rooms connecting to the living room, but none of the other three rooms connected with each other. This awkward arrangement of rooms filled the second floor of a pleasant white clapboard house on East Robin Road, which Sondgard rented from Mrs. Flynn, the widow who owned the house and lived on the first floor. The flat’s only entrance was up an outside staircase in the back to the kitchen door. Anyone entering the flat had to go first through the kitchen — edging around the table — and then on into the living room. The bedroom was then to the right, and the bathroom was tucked in the remaining corner, at the rear of the house and next to the kitchen.
The arrangement of rooms, while somewhat awkward, made for a light-filled apartment. Every room — even the bathroom — had windows in two walls. Light poured in from everywhere, shining on the overstuffed mohair and chipped varnish which had been Mrs. Flynn’s contribution to the furnishing of the flat, and the few clean simple pieces that had been Sondgard’s later additions. There was his leather chair, a deep dark red, with matching footstool. The small chair-side table with built-in humidor and pipe rack, filled with the pipes he only smoked while reading or listening to music. Hanging on the long wall was a painting by a friend of his back at college: a gnarled tree on an ocean cliff, with storm clouds in the background.
Now, so early in the morning, wan light made the front rooms pallid. The house faced west, so living room and bedroom got no sun till the afternoon. Sondgard finished dressing, wearing the uniform he disliked but which he had long since accepted as a necessary part of the job, and hurried through the kitchen, bright with long rays of morning sunlight, and down the outside wooden stairs, the banister damp with morning dew.
His Volvo was parked in the wide part of the driveway, beside the garage. He took a rag from under the seat and wiped condensation from the windshield, then climbed in and backed the car out to the street. He turned right and drove the two and a half blocks to Broad Avenue, then turned right again.
Broad Avenue was deserted. It was now six-twenty in the morning. The sun was behind him, glistening on the street, casting long shadows of the occasional slender trees along the sidewalks, making it difficult to tell if the two traffic lights he came to were showing red or green. He turned left at Circle South, and headed out around the lake toward the Lowndes estate five miles from town, two miles short of the summer theater.
Still not six-thirty, and he arrived at the estate entrance, to see the blue-and-white prowl car parked just inside the now-open gates. A black Mercury was parked next to it. Sondgard turned the Volvo in, left it with the other two cars, and walked over to the group beside the road.
There was Larry Temple, looking very young and fragile in his brave blue uniform. And with him were two older, tougher-looking men in dark gray uniforms with badges on their left breasts. Coming closer, Sondgard could see that the badges each had a number, and surrounding the number the legend: Trans-Continental Protective Agency.