“Well, it’s your decision. It’s too bad there isn’t some way of locating him beforehand.”
“That passed through my mind, too.”
“Listen, why not push him a little?”
“How?”
“He sounded a little nervous, and I don’t think he liked your suggestion any more than I do. Let’s not be here when he calls back. Don’t let him think you’re just sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. Make him wait a little. Go conjure up some fresh clothes and we’ll drive over to the country club for a couple of hours. It’ll beat raiding the icebox.”
“Good idea,” I said. “This was supposed to be a vacation, one time. That’s probably the closest I’ll get. Sounds fine.” I renewed my wardrobe out of Shadow, trimmed my beard, showered, and dressed. We drove to the club then and had a leisurely meal on the terrace. It was a good evening for it, balmy and star-filled, running with moonlight like milk. By mutual consent we refrained from discussing my problems any further. Bill seemed to know almost everyone there, so it seemed a friendly place to me. It was the most relaxed evening I’d spent in a long while. Afterward we stopped for drinks in the club bar, which I gathered had been one of my dad’s favorite watering spots, strains of dance music drifting through from the room next door.
“Yeah, it was a good idea,” I said. “Thanks.”
“De nada,” he said. “I had a lot of good times here with your old man. You haven’t, by any chance?”
“No, no news of him.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll let you know when he turns up.”
“Sure. Sorry.”
The drive back was uneventful, and no one followed us. We got in a little after midnight, said good night, and I went straight to my room. I shrugged out of my new jacket and hung it in the closet, kicked off my new shoes and left them there, too. As I walked back into the room, I noticed the white rectangle on the pillow of my bed.
I crossed to it in two big steps and snatched it up. SORRY YOU WERE NOT IN WHEN I CALLED BACK, It said, in block capitals. BUT I SAW YOU AT THE CLUB AND CAN CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND YOUR WANTING A NIGHT OUT. IT GAVE ME AN IDEA. LET’S MEET IN THE BAR THERE, TOMORROW NIGHT, AT TEN. I’D FEEL BETTER WITH LOTS OF PEOPLE AROUND BUT NONE OF THEM LISTENING.
Damn. My first impulse was to go and tell Bill. My first thought following the impulse, though, was that there was nothing he could do except lose some sleep over it, a thing he probably needed a lot more than I did. So I folded the note and stuck it in my shirt pocket, then hung up the shirt.
Not even a nightmare to liven my slumber. I slept deeply and well, knowing Frakir would rouse me in the event of danger. In fact, I overslept, and it felt good. The morning was sunny and birds were singing.
I made my way downstairs to the kitchen after splashing and combing myself into shape and raiding Shadow for fresh slacks and a shirt. There was a note on the kitchen table. I was tired of fording notes, but this one was from Bill, saying he’d had to run into town to his office for a while and I should go ahead and help myself to anything that looked good for breakfast. He’d be back a little later.
I checked out the refrigerator and came up with some English muffins, a piece of cantaloupe and a glass of orange juice. Some coffee I’d started first thing was ready shortly after I finished, and I took a cup with me out onto the porch.
As I sat there; I began to think that maybe I ought to leave a note of my own and move on. My mysterious correspondent — conceivably S — had phoned here once and broken in once. How S had known I was here was immaterial. It was a friend’s house, and though I did not mind sharing some of my problems with friends, I did not like the idea of exposing them to danger. But then, it was daylight now and the meeting was set for this evening. Not that much longer till some sort of resolution was achieved. Almost silly to depart at this point. In fact, it was probably better that I hang around till then. I could keep an eye on things, protect Bill if anything came up today.
Suddenly, I had a vision of someone forcing Bill to write that note at gunpoint, then whisking him away as a hostage to pressure me into answering questions.
I hurried back to the kitchen and phoned his office. Horace Crayper, his secretary, answered on the second ring. “Hi, this is Merle Corey,” I said. “Is Mr. Roth in?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but he’s with a client right now. Could I have him call you back?”
“No, it’s not that important,” I said, “and I’ll be seeing him later. Don’t bother him. Thanks.” I poured myself another cup of coffee and returned to the porch. This sort of thing was bad for the nerves. I decided that if everything wasn’t squared away this evening I would leave.
A figure rounded the corner of the house.
“Hi, Merle.”
It was George Hansen. Frakir gave me the tiniest of pulses, as if beginning a warning and then reconsidering it. Ambiguous. Unusual.
“Hi, George. How’s it going?”
“Pretty well. Is Mr. Roth in?”
“Afraid not. He had to go into town for a while. I imagine he’ll be back around lunchtime or a little after.”
“Oh. A few days ago he’d asked me to stop by when I was free, about some work he wanted done.”
He came nearer, put his foot on the step. I shook my head.
“Can’t help you. He didn’t mention it to me. You’ll have to catch him later.”
He nodded, unwound his pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it, then rewound the pack in his shirt sleeves. This T-shirt was a Pink Floyd.
“How are you enjoying your stay?” he asked.
“Real well. You care for a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
I rose and went inside.
“With a little cream and sugar,” he called after me.
I fixed him one and when I returned with it he was seated in the other chair on the porch.
“Thanks.” After he’d tasted it, he said, “I know your dad’s name’s Carl even though Mr. Roth said Sam. His memory must’ve slipped.”
“Or his tongue,” I said. He smiled.
What was it about the way he talked? His voice could almost be the one I’d heard on the phone last night, though that one had been very controlled and slowed just enough to neutralize any number of speech clues. It wasn’t that comparison that was bothering me.
“He was a retired military officer, wasn’t he? And some sort of government consultant?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“Doing a lot of travelling — overseas.”
“You going to see him on your own trip?”
“I hope so.”
“That’ll be nice,” he said, taking a drag on his cigarette and another sip of coffee. “Ah! that’s good!”
“I don’t remember seeing you around,” he said suddenly then. “You never lived with your dad, huh?”
“No, I grew up with my mother and other relatives.”
“Pretty far from here, huh?”
I nodded. “Overseas.”
“What was her name?”
I almost told him. I’m not certain why, but I changed it to “Dorothy” before it came out.
I glanced at him in time to see him purse his lips. He had been studying my face as I spoke.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“No special reason. Or genetic nosiness, you might say. My mother was the town gossip.”
He laughed and gulped coffee.
“Will you be staying long?” he asked then.
“Hard to say. Probably not real long, though.”
“Well, I hope you have a good time of it.” He finished his coffee and set the cup on the railing. He rose then, stretched and added, “Nice talking to you.”
Partway down the stairs he paused and turned.
“I’ve a feeling you’ll go far,” he told me. “Good luck.”
“You may, too,” I said. “You’ve a way with words.”