All the way home he crouched in the back seat of the taxi, his eyes closed, thinking of the other place. When the taxi stopped he opened his eyes and saw that the Shane house was dark. He gave the driver a bill and got out.
Someone had left the door unlocked for him. He opened it quietly. He didn’t want to waken anyone, to meet anyone. He wanted to think. He seemed to be thinking very well tonight...
But he hadn’t had his picture in the Christian Herald in time. The devil was at his head again, taking his vengeance. There were only two taps but they were hard.
They cracked Duncan’s skull.
5
There had been frost during the night. The trees were mottled with silver and the grass lay smothered and gray with death.
The milkman shivered as he swung off his truck and up the driveway to the tune of clanking bottles. Soon it would be winter, he thought, and the raw winds would be blowing from Lake Ontario, and the milk would freeze and push out the top of the bottle like a growing plant.
Yes, it was a hard life. His step had slowed; he seemed to be already fighting his way through snow. He put out his hand to brush away some of the hoarfrost from the cedar hedge that lined the driveway. Under the warmth of his hand the frost melted and disappeared. The gesture made him feel better. It was as if he had done his bit to stop the approach of winter.
Then through the hedge he saw Duncan lying at the bottom of the steps.
He set down his wire basket of bottles with a sharp clank, parted the hedge, and crawled through it. His hands were scratched, but he didn’t notice the scratches because the young man with his head resting on a flagstone seemed to be dead.
It required only a touch of that rigid, outstretched hand to convince the milkman that Duncan was dead.
He’s fallen, the milkman thought, and he couldn’t get up so he froze to death. No, he can’t have frozen, it isn’t winter yet. But blast me if he doesn’t look frozen.
Duncan’s hair was silvered by the frost. His black coat had turned to rich gray plush and the tips of his eyelashes were pointed with diamonds.
The milkman crouched and touched him again.
Why, he looks like someone carved him out of silver and scattered a few rubies around for good measure.
Oh hell, thought the milkman, standing up again, I got too much imagination.
He went up the steps and rang the bell. The discovery had excited him, had warmed him. Beside the coldness of death he felt very quick and alive; his limbs had become very flexible.
The bell pealed again, and soon Jackson, an old bathrobe flung over his pajamas, opened the door and came out.
“There’s a dead man out here,” the milkman said. The warmth born out of the contrast with cold had affected even his voice.
But Jackson had already seen for himself. He still had his hand on the doorknob and he gripped it a little more tightly.
“Does he belong here?” the milkman said.
“You’d better come inside,” Jackson said, “while I phone the police.”
“I got my rounds to make. I got to be finished at nine o’clock.”
“What’s your name?”
“James Harrison, Goldenrod Dairy, number fifty-five. If you think I should stick around maybe I could get my brother-in-law—”
“As long as I have your name,” Jackson said. “The police may want to get in touch with you.”
“Well, that’s my name all right, James Harrison, number fifty-five.”
The door closed on Jackson. James Harrison took another look at Duncan, then he went through the hedge again and picked up his wire basket of milk bottles. The clock on the dashboard of his truck said six minutes past six.
“At approximately six o’clock,” James Harrison said aloud, “I was making my usual rounds when I chanced to discover the deceased corpse at 197 River Road, one of my best customers. I sensed immediately that there was something wrong...”
Jackson went into the library and phoned for Inspector Sands, then he sat for a while, shivering under his bathrobe, not thinking anything at all. Afterward he went back to his room on the third floor.
He paused on the landing of the second floor but he heard no one stirring. They were all as quiet in sleep as Duncan was in death. Jackson thought, I am the only one in the house who’s really alive.
He was lonely and a little frightened. On the third floor he let his step grow heavy and whistled a bar of music to make someone come alive. In his room he changed into his black trousers and tie and put on a fresh linen coat. Someone moved in the next room. There were the creak of bedsprings and a short, hoarse cough.
Through the wall he heard Dennis Williams say, “God!” in a long-drawn-out sigh. He must be looking at the clock, Jackson thought, and seeing how early it is.
He went out into the hall and rapped on Dennis’ door.
“Come in,” Dennis said thickly.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed holding the clock in his hands. His face in the early light had a greenish tinge like old bronze. His black hair was ruffled and it looked thin and rather oily.
“Doesn’t anyone sleep around here?” he demanded. “Is this damn clock right?”
“It’s right, sir,” Jackson said. “I’m sorry the bell awakened you. It rings in my room as well as in the kitchen.”
“Who the hell goes around ringing bells at six o’clock in the morning?”
I don’t like his tone, Jackson decided. I think I’ll let him have it.
“The milkman rang the bell, sir. He found Mr. Stevens lying dead at the foot of the veranda steps.”
Dennis didn’t move at all. There was no sound in the room but the ticking of the clock and the breathing of two men who were rather angry.
“Well, that’s as good a reason as any,” Dennis said finally. “Duncan is really dead?”
“Oh, yes sir,” Jackson said dryly.
“Have you notified the police?”
“Yes sir.”
Dennis put the alarm clock back on the table with slow deliberation.
“Is Duncan— I mean—”
“It looks like an accident, sir. Will you have your breakfast now? I can wake Mrs. Hogan.”
“Yes,” Dennis said. “Wake Mrs. Hogan.”
By the time Jackson came downstairs again Inspector Sands had arrived. He was standing in the hall with the front door open, examining the lock. He turned his head at the sound of Jackson’s step and motioned to him to walk quietly.
Through the slit in the door Jackson could see four men. One of them had a camera and he was saying in a mild voice, “Get the hell out of the way, Bill. I don’t want a picture of your feet.”
They all seemed to know exactly what to do. Inspector Sands paid no attention to them.
“How do you lock this door at night, Jackson?” Sands asked.
“The self lock is kept on all the time,” Jackson said. “We simply leave it like that at night.”
Sands propped his notebook against the wall and wrote down the name and address of the milkman and the time of his arrival.
“The guests are still sleeping, sir,” Jackson said, “except Mr. Williams. Shall I wake the others?”
The inspector shook his head and returned to his study of the door. He opened it wider to say: “Make it snappy, Tom. The sun’s coming up fast.”
The man with the camera nodded.
Jackson looked puzzled. “What’s the sun got to do with it?”
Sands raised his head. “Frost,” he said enigmatically. “If you could make us a pot of coffee, Jackson, we’d be much obliged.”
Jackson went out to the kitchen. Sands opened the front door wide.
The man with the camera said: “Done, and done prettily, Inspector. Do I develop them right away?”