That explained the taste shown in the room. "This looks very nice," Ragle said.
"What line are you in?" Garret Kesselman asked.
"I'm involved in newspaper work," Ragle said.
"Oh, I'll be darned," Garret said. "No kidding. That must be a fascinating business. When I was in school I took a couple of years of journalism."
Mrs. Kesselman returned with a tray on which were three small glasses and an unusual-shaped bottle. "Tennessee sourmash whiskey," she said, setting the tray down on the glasstopped coffee table. "From the oldest distillery in the country. Jack Daniel's black label."
"I never heard of it," Ragle said, "but it sounds wonderful."
"It's excellent whiskey," Garret said, handing Ragle a glass of the stuff. "Something like Canadian whiskey."
"I'm a beer drinker, usually," Ragle said. He tasted the sourmash whiskey and it seemed all right. "Fine," he said.
The three of them said nothing, then.
"It seems a bad time to be driving around looking for someone," Mrs. Kesselman said, when Ragle had finished his glass of whiskey and was pouring himself a second. "Most people tackle this hill during the daylight hours." She seated herself facing him. Her son perched on the arm of the couch.
Ragle said, "I had a quarrel with my wife and I couldn't stand it any more. I had to get out."
"How unfortunate," Mrs. Kesselman said.
"I didn't even stop to pack my clothes," Ragle said. "No objective in mind, just getting away. Then I remembered this friend and I thought I might be able to hole up with him for a while, until I got my bearings. Haven't seen him in years. He probably moved away a long time ago. It's lousy when a marriage breaks up. Like the end of the world."
"Yes," Mrs. Kesselman agreed.
Ragle said, "How about letting me stay here tonight?"
They glanced at each other. Embarrassed, they both started to answer at once. The gist of it was no.
"I have to stay somewhere," Ragle said. He reached into his coat pocket and rooted about for his wallet. Getting it out he opened it up and counted his money. "I've got a couple hundred dollars on me," he said. "I can pay you according to the inconvenience it causes you. Money for inconvenience."
Mrs. Kesselman said, "Let us have a chance to talk it over." Arising, she motioned to her son. The two of them disappeared into the other room; the door shut after them.
I've got to stay here, Ragle said to himself. He poured himself another glass of the sour-mash whiskey and walked back to the fireplace with it, to stand in the warmth.
That pick-up truck, he thought to himself. With its radio. It must have belonged to _them_; otherwise it wouldn't have had a radio. The boy at the Standard Station... he represented them.
Proof, Ragle said to himself. The radio is proof. It's not in my mind. It's a fact.
_By their fruits, ye shall know them_, he thought. And their fruits are that they communicate by radio.
The door opened. Mrs. Kesselman and her son returned. "We've talked it over," she said, sitting down on the couch across from Ragle. Her son stood by her, looking grave. "It's obvious to us that you're in distress. We'll allow you to stay, seeing that you are clearly in some unfortunate situation. But we want you to be honest with us, and we don't feel you have. There's more to your situation than you've told us so far."
Ragle said, "You're right."
The Kesselmans exchanged glances.
"I was driving around intending to commit suicide," Ragle said. "I meant to get up speed and leave the road. Crack up in a ditch. But I lost my nerve."
The Kesselmans stared at him in horror. "Oh no," Mrs. Kesselman said. She got up and started toward him. "Mr. Gumm--"
"My name's not Gumm," Ragle said. But obviously they recognized him. Had recognized him from the start.
Everybody in the universe knows me. I shouldn't be surprised. In fact I'm not surprised.
"I knew who you were," Mrs. Kesselman said, "but I didn't want to embarrass you if you didn't feel inclined to tell us."
Garret said, "If you don't mind my asking, who is Mr. Gumm? I guess I should know, but I don't."
His mother said, "Dear, this is the Mr. Gumm who keeps winning the contest in the _Gazette_. Remember last week on TV we saw, that film about him." To Ragle, she said, "Oh, I know all about you. Years ago I used to enter contests. In fact--" She laughed. "In 1937 I entered the Old Gold contest. I got all the way up to the top; I got every single puzzle right."
"She cheated, though," her son said.
"Yes," Mrs. Kesselman said. "A girl friend and I used to slip out on our lunch hour with five dollars we pooled together, and buy a dope-sheet from a little old newsvendor who slipped it to us from under the counter."
Garret said, "I hope you don't mind sleeping down in the basement. It's not really a basement; we made it into a rumpus room a few years back. There's a bathroom and a bed down there... we've been using it for guests who couldn't make it back down the hill."
"You don't still intend to -- do away with yourself, do you?" Mrs. Kesselman asked. "Hasn't that left your mind?"
"Yes," Ragle said.
With relief, she said, "I'm so glad. As a fellow contest enterer I'd take it very hard. We're all looking to you to keep winning."
"Just think," Garret said. "We'll go down in history as the persons who kept--" he stumbled over the name -- "Mr. Gumm from yielding to the impulse toward self-destruction. Our names will be linked with his. Fame."
"Fame," Ragle agreed.
Another round of Tennessee sour-mash whiskey was poured. The three of them sat about the living room, drinking it and watching one another.
nine
The door chimes rang. Junie Black dropped her magazine and got up to answer it.
"Telegram for Mr. William Black," the uniformed Western Union boy said. "Sign here, please." He handed her a pencil and pad; she signed and received the telegram.
Closing the door she carried the telegram to her husband. "For you," she said.
Bill Black opened the telegram, turned away so that his wife couldn't read it over his shoulder, and saw what it had to say.
CYCLE MISSED TRUCK. GUMM PASSED BAR-B-Q. YOUR GUESS.
Never send a boy to do a man's job, Bill Black said to himself. Your guess is as good as mine. He glanced at his wristwatch. Nine-thirty P.M. Later and later. It was too late now.
"What's it say?" Junie asked.
"Nothing," he said. I wonder if they'll find him, he wondered. I hope so. Because if they don't some of us will be dead by this time tomorrow. God knows how many thousands of dead people. Our lives depend on Ragle Gumm. Him and his contest.
"It's a catastrophe," Junie said. "Isn't it? I can tell by the expression on your face."
"Business," he said. "City business."
"Oh indeed?" she said. "Don't lie to me. I'll bet it has something to do with Ragle." Suddenly she snatched the telegram away from him and rushed out of the room with it. "It is!" she cried, standing off by herself and reading the telegram. "What did you do -- hire somebody to kill him? I know he's disappeared; I was talking to Margo on the phone and she says--"
He managed to get the telegram back from her. "You haven't got any idea what this means," he said, with mighty control.
"I can tell what it means. As soon as Margo told me Ragle had disappeared--"
"Ragle didn't disappear," he said, almost at the end of his mighty control. "He walked off."
"How do you know?"
"I know," he said.
"You know because you're responsible for his disappearance."
In a sense, Bill Black thought, she's right. I'm responsible because, when he and Vic popped out of that clubhouse, I thought they were kidding. "Okay," he said. "I'm responsible."