“But I need them this morning.”
Then the photographer looked sly. The madman saw it, and felt the anger rising in him, but forced it down out of sight. The photographer said, “A real hurry job like that, my friend, that’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
“How many copies you want?”
“Ten.”
“Fifty dollars.”
“All right,” said the madman, knowing then he would have to kill the photographer. For being sly, and unfriendly, and unwilling to help his fellow man for the simple reason that we are all human beings together. Even if he’d had enough money to pay the photographer, he would still have had to kill him.
He posed in the same position as the dead actor in the other picture, and the photographer gave him the same kind of dramatic lighting. Then the photographer told him to come back in three hours, and he went away and had a big breakfast of pancakes and coffee, and took a nap in the car, which was parked on a residential side street. A small boy awoke him at eleven o’clock by banging on the fender of the car with a stick, and he got out of the car and took the stick away from the boy. He had the boy’s shoulder in his left hand, the stick in his right hand, and the anger was building in him, but then he saw two women with shopping carts walking toward him, and he knew he didn’t want to have to run away until he got the pictures, so he let the boy go.
The photographer had the pictures ready when he got back, and they weren’t as good as the other ones had been, but they would do. He and the photographer were alone in the shop, so when the photographer asked for his fifty dollars the madman jumped on him. He’d forgotten to bring a rock or any kind of weapon with him, but he managed to break the photographer’s left elbow-joint very early in the fighting, and that drained the photographer of strength, and then it was simple to strangle him.
He went back to the car and looked around, but the boy was nowhere to be seen, and there wasn’t time to look for him. He got into the car and stowed the new pictures in the suitcase and drove to the bus depot and left the car in a parking lot across the street. The attendant gave him a yellow ticket stub with red numbers on it. He carried the suitcase and ticket stub across the street with him and then threw the ticket stub away. He knew about license numbers and automobile descriptions, and he knew it would be dangerous to drive that car any farther.
He bought a ticket to Cartier Isle, which was where the summer theater was. He had a four-hour wait this time, so he checked the suitcase and went to a movie. He fell asleep in the movie house and got back to the bus depot just in time to get his suitcase and climb on the bus.
Mel Daniels came into Cartier Isle on the Thursday afternoon bus, twenty-four hours late for work. He’d shaved and made himself presentable, but he still had the shakes and a grinding headache. Mel Daniels and his Magic Hangover.
The bus rolled down the main street to the middle of town, and came to a stop in front of the depot, which was also a drug store, lunch counter, and newsstand. End of the line. Mel and the other four passengers climbed down to the sun-bright sidewalk, carrying their luggage. Mel had his father’s suitcase, the remnant of a matched set.
He stood squinting on the sidewalk a minute. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun was bright enough for him to be on Mercury by mistake. He put his free hand over his eyes and hurried on into the relative dimness of the store.
A little bald man in a white coat stood behind the tobacco counter to the left. Mel went over and said, “Can you point me at the summer theater?”
“Other side of the lake.”
“Other side of the lake,” Mel repeated. He put the suitcase down, and leaned on the glass counter. “How far would that be, in miles?”
“Seven.”
“Uh huh. There wouldn’t be a bus headed out there.”
“Nope.”
“I wonder how I get there.” The hangover was making him feel sickly humorous, like a condemned man noticing the hangman’s fly is open.
“Beats me,” said the little man. “You an actor?”
“It says here.”
“What’s that?”
“It says I’m an actor.”
“The rest all come in yesterday. They sent the station wagon down. You could maybe phone.” He motioned at the phone booths in the back of the store.
“I bet that would work. Many thanks.”
He picked up the suitcase and carried it back by the booths, and put it down again. Hanging from a piece of string nailed to the wall was the phone book, a small slender staple-bound volume with a blue cover. After a lifetime spent looking up numbers in the Manhattan directory, this little blue book seemed unreal. Visions of Ray Bradbury danced in his head.
He found the theater number, stepped into the booth, and made the call. A young-sounding female voice answered, and when he told her who and where he was she said, “Oh. We were wondering about you. Just a minute.”
“What’s a minute, at this stage?”
“That’s right,” she said, and went away.
He waited, perspiring gently in the phone booth, shakes and headache both worse again now because he was standing up and no longer had the protection of the air-conditioned bus. He wanted a cigarette but he was afraid to light one, knowing what it would taste like.
The same voice came back after a while and told him to wait at the depot, someone would be down to get him. He thanked her and left the booth and went over to the lunch counter.
The little man in the white coat came over and asked him what he wanted. He asked for coffee, and then changed his mind and asked for iced coffee. The little man said, “No iced coffee. Iced tea.”
He was going to go into a Hemingway routine from that — repeat everything the little man said, and ask when the Swede came in for dinner — but he didn’t have the energy. And the little man wouldn’t get it, he’d figure Mel for a smart aleck. So he said, “All right, iced tea.”
The iced tea helped, more than he’d expected, and he tried some Nabs, little sandwiches of crackers and peanut butter. After a while he even took a chance on a cigarette, and it tasted no worse than usual. About like the one before breakfast.
Twenty minutes after the phone call, a girl in white shirt and jeans and sneakers came in and said, “Mel Daniels?”
“More or less.”
“Come on along.”
He picked up his suitcase and followed her out to all that sunlight. A pale blue Ford station wagon shimmered in the No Parking zone. They got in and she drove, westward, toward the lake. The other traffic was mostly expensive cars, Cadillacs or Rolls or Continentals, Simonized to black glory.
“Mary Ann McKendrick,” said the girl abruptly. “That’s me.”
“Greetings. You already know who I am.”
“Indeed I do. Mr. Haldemann is furious.”
“I had a going-away party. I kept going away, and going away, and going away.” He put his hands over his eyes. “I should have bought sunglasses.”
“See if there’s a pair in the glove compartment.”
He rummaged in the glove compartment and found a set of clip-ons. He balanced them on his nose and said, “An Inspector calls.”
She smiled, and said, “Have you got an excuse worked out?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Your best bet is just to tell him the truth.”
“Dear Mr. Haldemann. He was young once himself.”
“He still is.” She said it with an odd defensiveness.
He tried to look at her searchingly, but the clip-ons fell off. Did she have her cap set for Herr Haldemann? He couldn’t be sure.
Ah, well, there’d be other girls.
They were away from town now, but he couldn’t see any lake. It should be off to the right, but the road on that side was lined with tall fencing, broken now and again by iron gates at the entrance to private roads. Through the fencing he could see parklike expanses of lawn and trees. Estates along here, to go with the rich cars.