“But you said there was only one money tree.”
“That’s all I saw, was one. But the place was dark and there might be more of them. You wouldn’t expect a man like Metcalfe to be satisfied with just one money tree, would you. If he had one, he could grow some others. I bet you he has twenty-dollar trees and fifty-dollar trees and hundred-dollar trees.”
He sighed. “I sure would like to get just five minutes with a hundred-dollar tree. I’d be set for life. I’d do me some two-handed picking the like you never see.”
“Shuck up your shirt,” said Mabel. “I got to get at them scratches on your ribs.”
Doyle shucked up his shirt.
“You know,” he said, “I bet you Metcalfe ain’t the only one that has them money trees. I bet all the rich folks has them. I bet they’re all banded together in a secret society, pledged to never talk about them. I wouldn’t wonder if that’s where all the money comes from. Maybe the government don’t print no money, like they say they do …”
“Shut up,” commanded Mabel, “and hold still.”
She worked swiftly on his ribs.
“What are you going to do with the rolla?” she asked.
“We’ll put him in the car and drive down and have a talk with Metcalfe. You stay out in the car with the rolla and if there is any funny stuff, you get out of there. Long as we have the rolla we got Metcalfe across the barrel.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’ll stay alone, with that thing in the car. Not after what it done to you.”
“Just get yourself a stick of stove wood and belt him one with it if he makes a crooked move.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” said Mabel. “I will not stay with him.”
“All right, then,” said Doyle, “we’ll put him in the trunk. We’ll fix him up with some blankets, so he’ll be comfortable. He can’t get at you there. And it might be better to have him under lock and key.”
Mabel shook her head. “I hope that you are doing right, Chuck. I hope we don’t get into trouble.”
“Put that stuff away,” said Doyle, “and let us get a move on. We got to get out of here before that jerk down the hall decides to phone the cops.”
The rolla showed up in the doorway, patting at his belly.
JERKS? he asked. WHATS THEM?
“Oh, my aching back,” said Doyle, “now I got to explain to him.”
JERKS LIKE HEELS?
“Sure, that’s it,” said Doyle. “A jerk is like a heel.”
METCALFE SAY
ALL OTHER
HUMANS HEELS
“Now, I tell you, Metcalfe might have something there,” said Doyle, judicially.
HEEL MEAN
HUMAN WITH
NO MONEY
“I’ve never heard it put quite that way,” said Doyle, “but if that should be the case, you can count me as a heel.”
METCALFE SAY
THAT WHAT IS
WRONG WITH PLANET.
THERE IS TOO
LITTLE MONEY
“Now, that is something that I’ll go along with him.”
SO I NOT
ANGRY WITH
YOU ANY MORE.
Mabel said: “My, but he’s turned out to be a chatterbox.”
MY JOB TO
CARE AND
GUARD TREE.
I ANGRY AT
THE START.
BUT FINALLY
I THINK
POOR HEEL
NEED SOME MONEY
CANNOT BLAME
FOR TAKING.
“That’s decent of you,” Doyle told him. “I wish you’d thought of that before you chewed me up. If I could have had just a full five minutes—”’
“I am ready,” Mabel said. “If we have to leave, let’s go.”
Doyle went softly up the walk that led to the front of the Metcalfe house. The place was dark and the moon was riding homeward in the western sky, just above the tip of a row of pines that grew in the grounds across the street.
He mounted the steps of mellowed brick and stood before the door. He reached out and rang the bell and waited.
Nothing happened.
He rang again and yet again and there was no answer.
He tried the door and it was locked.
“They flown the coop,” said Doyle, talking to himself.
He went around the house into the alley and climbed the tree again.
The garden back of the house was dark and silent. He crouched for a long time atop the wall and the place was empty.
He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and played it downward. It cut a circle of uncertain light and he moved it slowly back and forth until it caught the maw of tortured earth.
His breath rasped in his throat at the sight of it and he worked the light around to make sure there was no mistake.
There was no mistake at all. The money tree was gone. Someone had dug it up and taken it away.
Doyle snapped off the light and slid it back into his pocket. He slid down the tree and trotted down the alley.
Two blocks away he came up to the car. Mabel had kept the motor idling. She moved from behind the wheel and he slid under it and shoved the car in gear.
“They took it on the lam,” he said. “There ain’t nobody there. They dug up the tree and took it on the lam.”
“Well, I’m glad of it,” Mabel said defiantly. “Now you won’t be getting into trouble—not with money trees at least.”
“I got a hunch,” said Doyle.
“So have I,” said Mabel. “Both of us is going home and getting us some sleep.”
“Maybe you,” said Doyle. “You can curl up in the seat. Me, I got some driving to do.”
“There ain’t no place to drive.”
“Metcalfe told me when I was taking his picture this afternoon about a farm he had. Bragging about all the things he has, you know. Out west some place, near a town called Millville.”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Well, if you had a lot of money trees…”
“But he had only one tree. In the backyard of his house.”
“Maybe he has lots of them. Maybe he had this one here just to keep him in pocket money when he was in town.”
“You mean you’re driving out to this place where he has a farm?”
“I have to find an all-night station first. I need some gas and I need a road map to find out where is this Millville place. I bet you Metcalfe’s got an orchard on that farm of his. Can’t you see it, Mabel? Row after row of trees, all loaded down with money!”
The old proprietor of the only store in Millville—part hardware, part grocery, part drugstore, with the post office in one corner—rubbed his silvery mustache.
“Yeah,” he said. “Man by the name of Metcalfe does have a farm—over in the hills across the river. He’s got it named and everything. He calls it Merry Hill. Now, can you tell me, stranger, why anyone should name a farm like that?”
“People do some funny things,” said Doyle. “Can you tell me how to get there?”
“You asked?”
“Sure I asked. I asked you just now …”
The old man shook his head. “You been invited there? Metcalfe expecting you?”
“No, I don’t suppose he is.”
“You’ll never get in then. He’s got it solid-fenced. And he’s got a guard at the gate—even got a little house for the guard to stay in. ‘Less Metcalfe wants you in, you don’t get in.”
“I’ll have a try at it.”
“I wish you well, stranger, but I don’t think you’ll make it. Now, why in the world should Metcalfe act like that? This is friendly country. No one else has got their farms fenced with eight-foot wire and barbs on top of that. No one else could afford to do it even if they wanted to. He must be powerful scared of someone.”