“This is a ridiculous conversation,” Alice said. “I think you’d better stick to looking in windows on lower Fifth Street, Mr. Meecham.”
“I don’t look in...”
“You said you did.”
“I said I could.”
“Anybody can. You hardly need any special equipment for window peeping.”
“I am not a window peeper.”
“Well, you said you were.”
“I did not say I...”
“I heard you distinctly.”
Meecham shook his head in exasperation. “All right. All right, I’m a window peeper.”
“I can believe it.”
“I think I’ve changed my mind about you, Alice. You are unique. Absolutely unique and impossible.”
Alice gazed at him blandly. “I’d rather be impossible than ordinary. Mrs. Hamilton says I can be anything if I try.”
“Mrs. Hamilton’s an authority?”
“On most things.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” he said. “Don’t get stuck on the old girl. She might let you down.”
From outside there came the sound of footsteps hurrying across the patio. A moment later the front door burst open and Mrs. Hamilton came rushing into the room. Her coat was flying open and her hat had slid to the back of her head. She looked blowsy and old and scared.
As she turned to close the door behind her the parcels she was carrying slid out of her arms and dropped to the floor. There was a muffled shatter of glass, and almost instantly the smell of lilacs crept poignantly into the room like a remembered spring.
“Turn off the lights, Alice,” she said. “Don’t ask questions. Turn them off.”
Alice did as she was told. Without lights the smell of lilacs seemed stronger, and Mrs. Hamilton’s harsh breathing rose and fell in the darkness.
“Someone is out there. A man. He’s been following me.”
Meecham coughed, faintly. She took it as a sign of disbelief.
“No, I’m not imagining things, Mr. Meecham,” she said sharply. “He followed me from the bus stop. I couldn’t get a cab downtown so I took the bus. This man got off at the same corner as I did. He followed me. I think he meant to rob me.”
“He may live in one of the houses around here,” Meecham said.
“No. He came after me quite deliberately and openly. When I walked fast he walked fast, and when I paused he paused. There was something almost sadistic about it.”
“He’s probably a neighborhood nut who gets his kicks out of scaring women,” Meecham said. Or a policeman, he thought, maybe one of Cordwink’s men. “Where is he now?”
“The last I saw of him he had gone behind the cedar hedge.” She crossed to the window and pointed. “Right there, at the entrance to the driveway. He might be there yet.”
“I’ll go out and take a look.”
“What if he’s dangerous? Maybe we should call the police immediately.”
“First, let’s see if he’s still there,” Meecham said.
Outside, the snow was still falling. It felt good, after the heat of the house. Through the patio and down the driveway Meecham walked, a little self-consciously, aware that the two women were watching him from the window and not sure how far they could see, since it wasn’t totally dark yet.
By the time he reached the end of the curving driveway the snow didn’t feel quite so pleasant. With quiet persistence it had seeped in over the tops of his shoes, and up his coat sleeves and down under his collar. He felt cold and wet and foolish.
He said, in a voice that wasn’t as loud or as firm as he intended: “Hey. You behind the hedge. What are you doing?”
There was no answer. He had expected none. The old girl had probably dreamed up the whole thing. Darkness, weariness, a deserted street, footsteps behind — together they were rich food for the imagination.
Pulling up his coat collar against the snow, he was on the point of turning to go back to the house when a man shuffled out from the shadow of the hedge. He moved like an old man, and his hair and eyebrows were white, but the whiteness was snow. He stood with his back to the street lamp so that his face was just a blur in the deepening twilight. The light-colored baggy coat he wore hung on him like a tent.
“What am I doing here?” he said. “I’m waiting for the doctor.”
“Behind a hedge?”
“No, sir.” He had a rather high, earnest voice, like a schoolboy’s. “I intend to go to his office, but I thought I’d stand here a bit and enjoy the night. I like a winter night.”
“Kind of cold, isn’t it?”
“Not for me. I like the smell of cedar too. It reminds me of Christmas. I won’t be having a Christmas this year.” He brushed the snow from his eyebrows with the back of his bare hand. “Of course I’m not really waiting for the doctor.”
Meecham’s eyes were alert, suspicious. “No?”
“Oh, I’ll see him, of course. But what I’m really waiting for — and so are you, if you only knew it — is a destination, a finality, an end of something. My own case is rather special; I’m waiting for an end of fear.”
I was right, Meecham thought. He’s a neighborhood nut. Aloud he said, “You’d better pick a more comfortable place to wait. Move on, now. We don’t want any trouble.”
The man didn’t even hear him. “I’ve died a thousand times from fear. A thousand deaths, and one would have been enough. A great irony.”
“You’d better move on, go home and get some sleep. Have you got a family?”
“A family?” The young man laughed. “I have a great family.”
“They may be waiting for you.”
“I won’t be going home tonight.”
“You can’t stay here.” Meecham glanced briefly at the man’s shoes. Like the overcoat, they looked new. He said anyway, “I can let you have a couple of bucks.”
“What do you think, that I’m a bum wanting a handout? I’m not a bum.”
A car came around the corner, its headlights searched the man’s face for a moment like big blind eyes. Meecham recognized him instantly. He had seen him that morning in the county jail, the old-young man with the sensitive face and the swollen dissolute body. The body was hidden now under the tent of his overcoat. His face was bland and unlined, and the falling snow had feathered his eyelashes and made his eyes look dewy and innocent. He was, Meecham thought, about twenty-eight.
He said aloud, “We’ve met before.”
“Yes, I know. I know who you are.”
“Oh?”
“You’re Mr. Meecham, the girl’s lawyer.”
Meecham had an abrupt and inexplicable feeling of uneasiness. It was, he thought, like turning around suddenly on a dark night and finding at your heels a silent and vicious dog; nothing is said, nothing is done; the walk continues, the dog behind you, and behind the dog, fear, following you both.
“What’s your name?” Meecham said.
“Loftus. Earl Duane Loftus.” The young man blinked, and the snow tumbled from his eyelashes down his cheeks in a miniature avalanche. “You’d better go and call the police. You wouldn’t mind if I waited inside the house until they arrive? I’m not cold — I never mind the cold — but I’d like to sit down. I tire easily.”
“Why should I call the police?”
“I’d like to give them a statement.”
“What about?”
“I committed a murder.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t believe me,” Loftus said.
“Oh sure, sure I do.”
“No. I can tell. First you thought I was a bum, now you think I’m a psycho.”
“No, I don’t,” Meecham lied, without conviction.
“Well, I can’t blame you, actually. I guess every murder case attracts a lot of tips and confessions from psychos, people who want punishment or publicity or expiation. I don’t fit into any of those classes, Mr. Meecham.”