“Thanks, pal. I mean that. Sincerely.” The other fed the paper into the trunk and this time it did not return. He stood and hoisted the trunk up to his shoulder.
“I’ll be running along now, Louis, but before I do I’d like to give you a piece of advice. You won’t take it, but I feel compelled. That’s just the kind of guy I am.”
Stevenson peered at him. Joseph leaned down.
“You really would live longer if you’d give up the cigarettes.”
“Tempter, get thee below,” Stevenson croaked.
“Funny you should say that, you know, because that is where I’m based. In a geographical sense only, of course, Down and South being sort of the same? Little suburb just outside of Los Angeles. We produce our photo-plays down there. It’s not a great town for writers, Louis. I know you like to travel and everything, but you’d want to leave this one off your world itinerary. Believe me, it’s not a place for a man with your scruples to work. The climate’s good, though, and they really like your stuff, so it might have suited you. Who knows?”
“I’ll die first.” Stevenson closed his eyes. The other man nodded somberly and walked away into the night.
In entirely another time and place, there was a whirl and scatter of brown beech leaves and the trunk was there, spinning unsteadily to a halt; and as there had been no witness to observe its previous arrival, there was no witness now to notice that it was spinning in the opposite direction. It slowed and stopped, and the winter silence of an English forest settled over it. When the lid popped the trunk fell over, and the man in the brown suit had to push the lid aside as he crawled out on hands and knees through a small cloud of yellow smoke.
He crouched on the forest floor a moment or two, panting out stasis gas. As he got to his feet and brushed off his clothes he heard the approaching rattle of an automobile. He looked at his (for lack of a better word) watch.
It was December 3, 1926.
At that precise moment there was a mechanical squeal followed by crashing sounds and a thud, coming from beyond a nearby grove of trees.
He grinned and gave a little stamp of his foot, in appreciation of perfect timing. Then he turned and ran in the direction of the accident.
The automobile was not seriously damaged, although steam was hissing from the radiator cap under the hood ornament. The bug-eyed headlights stared as if in shock. So did the woman seated behind the wheel. Her cloche hat had flown off her head and lay outside the car. He picked it up and presented it to her with a bow. She turned her pale unhappy face to look at him, but said nothing.
“Here’s your hat, Mrs. Christie. Say, you’re lucky I came along when I did. I think you’ve had a bump on the head. That sort of injury can cause amnesia, you know.”
She did not respond.
“Don’t worry, though. Everything’s going to turn out all right. Allow me to introduce myself, ma’am. I represent the Chronos Photo-Play Company. You know, I’m quite a fan of your mystery novels. That Murder of Roger Ackroyd, that was a real peach. You ought to do more with that Hercule Poirot guy.”
She just looked at him sadly.
“Tell you what.” He leaned his elbow on the door and looked deep into her eyes. “You look like a lady who could use a vacation. Maybe at a nice anonymous seaside resort. What do you say we go off and have a nice private talk together over a couple of cocktails, huh?”
After a long moment of consideration she smiled.
“I don’t believe I caught your name,” she said.