He got up and brushed the glass from his clothes. Picking up his coat, he crossed to the other side of the room and looked out a window. The stale air and the almost complete absence of light told him what he could not see. An air shaft. He'd have to go out through the door at the end of the room, and, if he knew his missions, there'd be plenty of people to pass.
Pondering drearily, desperately, a hope born of utter hopelessness entered and teased at his mind. Maybe Chinless hadn't got to Elaine. Maybe he didn't want to get Toddy. He might not have missed the watch. He might- uh-just want to talk to him.
Oh, hell. Why kid himself? Still, the idea wasn't completely crazy, was it? Elaine's murder had taken careful timing, a complete disregard for danger on the part of the murderer. Anyone as ruthless and resourceful as that would not waste time with dogs. Not if they wanted to bump you.
Chinless must have missed the watch. He'd missed it and he was holding off on killing him, Toddy, until he got it back. He-but wait a minute! If Chinless had got to Elaine, he already had the watch! Why else would he have killed-
"Is this right, brother?" said a severe voice. "Is this how we live in God's way?"
The man wore that look of puffed elation which seems to be the trademark of do-gooders, an expression born of a conscious constipation of goodness; of great deeds and wondrous wisdom held painfully in check; a resigned look, a martyred look, a determinedly sad look-a perpetual bitterness at the world's unawareness of their worth, at the fact that men born of clay take no joy in excrement, regardless of its purveyor. The man had a thick, sturdy body, a bull neck, a size six and five eighths head.
He gripped Toddy's arm and marched him swiftly toward the door. "Don't do this again, brother," he warned. "The physical man must be provided for, yes. We recognize the fact. But before that comes our duty to God."
Toddy made sounds of acquiescence. This guy obviously wasn't used to having his authority questioned.
They went down a short flight of stairs which opened abruptly into a small sweat-and-urine-scented auditorium. Tight rows of wooden camp chairs were packed with the usual crowd of mission stiffs-birds who were too low, lazy or incapacitated to get their grub and flop by other means.
The man shoved Toddy into a chair in the front row, gave him a menacing glare, and stepped to the rostrum.
"I apologize for this slight delay, brethren," he said, with no trace of apology. "For your sakes, I hope there will be no more. You are not entitled to the comfortable beds and nourishing food which you find here. They are gifts-something given you out of God's mercy and goodness. Remember that and conduct yourselves accordingly… We will rise now and Praise Him from Whom All Blessings Flow."
He nodded to the woman on the platform, and her hands struck the keys of the upright piano. Everyone rose and began to sing.
There was a comedian immediately behind Toddy. He liked the melody to the hymn, apparently, but not the lyrics; and he improvised his own. Instead of "Praise Him from Whom All Blessings Flow," he sang something about raisin skins and holy Joe.
The next song was "Onward, Christian Soldiers," which the comedian turned into a panegyric on rocks and boulders, the padding, in his opinion, of mission mattresses.
Toward the end of the hymn, the preacher cocked his head to one side and sharply extended his hand. The pianist stopped playing; the bums lapsed into silence.
"Someone here-" he said, staring hard at Toddy, "someone thinks he is pretty funny. If he persists, if he commits any further disturbance, I am going to take stern measures with him. Let him be warned!"
Toddy stared intently at the song book. There was a heavy silence, and then another song was struck up- "Nearer My God to Thee."
The comedian behaved himself this time, but some guy in the back of the house was sure giving out with the corn. He was gargling the words; he seemed to be trying to sing and swallow hot mush at the same time.
The preacher looked at Toddy. He stood on tiptoe and stared out over the congregation. They went on singing fearfully, afraid to stop, and the corny guy seemed to edge closer.
Toddy stole a glance up from his book. The preacher's mouth had dropped open. He was no longer singing, but his hand continued to move through the air, unconsciously waving time to the hymn.
Then, at last, the owner of the preposterous voice came into Toddy's view. He sat down at his side, on the floor, and laid his great pear-shaped head against Toddy's hip. Having thus established proprietorship, he faced the rostrum, opened his great jaws to their widest, and "sang":
"Nrrahhhh me-odd t'eeeee…"
He was best on the high notes, and he knew it. He held them far beyond their nominal worth, disregarding the faltering guidance of the piano and the bums' fear-inspired determination to forge ahead with the song.
"Nrrahhh t'eee," he howled. "Neee-rroww t'EEEE…"
There was a crash as the preacher hurled his hymnal to the floor. Purple with rage, he pointed a quivering finger at Toddy.
"Get that animal Out of here! Get him out instantly!"
"He's not mine," said Toddy.
"Don't lie to me! You sneaked him in here tonight! That's why you were skulking upstairs! Of course he's yours! Anyone can see he's yours. Now get him OUT!"
Toddy gave up. He had to. The guy would be blowing the whistle on him in a minute.
He turned and started for the door. The dog hesitated, obviously torn between desire and training. Then, with a surly I-never-have- any-fun look, he followed.
Toddy paused on the sidewalk and put on his coat. The dog nudged him brusquely in the buttocks. He walked toward the curb, and the front door of the convertible swung open.
Toddy climbed in, heard the dog thump into the back seat, and leaned back wearily.
"What the hell's it all about?" he demanded. "What do you want with me?"
"You will know very soon," the girl said, and she would say no more than that.
10
Up until he met and married Elaine Ives, Toddy's world, despite its superficially complex appearance, was remarkably uncomplicated. Sound and practical motives guided every action; whims, if you were unfortunate to have them, were kept to yourself. Given a certain situation, you could safely depend upon certain actions and reactions. You might get killed for the change in your pocket. You would never get hurt, however, simply because someone felt like dishing it out.
Thus, on his wedding night, as he pushed himself up from the floor and slowly massaged his aching head, he couldn't accept the thing that had been done to him. He couldn't see it for what it was.
She'd been playing, putting on a show for him. Obviously, she'd just carried the act a little too far. She couldn't have meant what she'd said, what she'd done. She just couldn't have!
"Gosh, honey," he said, with a rueful smile. "Let's not play so rough, huh? Now what kind of whiskey would you like?"
"I'm sorry, T-Toddy. I-" She choked and tears filled her eyes.
"Forget it," he said. "You've just had a little more excitement than you can take. I should have seen it. I shouldn't have made you beg for a drink after all you've been through."