He raised his head first and then sat up, for the moment too shaken—not physically but mentally—to stand up. Somehow he wanted his bearings first, before he quite trusted his knees.
He was sitting on grass, smoothly mowed grass, in the middle of a yard. Behind him, when he looked around, was a house—a quite ordinary house, but it wasn’t Mr. Borden’s house. It had the look, somehow, of a vacant house. At least, there was no sign of life, no light at any window.
He stared at the house wonderingly, then turned back to look the other way. A hundred feet away, at the edge of the lawn on which he sat, was a hedge and at the other side of the hedge were trees—two orderly rows of them, as though on each side of a road. They were tall poplars.
He stood up a bit cautiously. There was a momentary touch of dizziness but, outside of that, he was all right. Whatever had happened to him he wasn’t hurt. He stood still until the dizziness passed and then started walking toward the gate in the hedge.
He looked at his wrist watch. It was five minutes of seven and that was impossible, he thought. Because it had been five minutes of seven, just about, when he’d been sitting on that bench in Mr. Borden’s garden. And wherever he was now he couldn’t have got here in nothing flat.
He held the wrist watch to his ear, and it was still ticking. But that didn’t prove anything. Maybe it had stopped from—from whatever had happened and had started again when he had stood up and started walking.
He looked up again at the sky. No, it had been dusk then and it was dusk now. Not much time could have elapsed, if any. And the crescent moon was in the same place—at least it was the same distance from the zenith. He couldn’t be sure here (wherever here was) about his bearings and directions.
The gateway through the hedge led to an asphalt-paved three-lane highway. As he closed the gate he looked again at the house and saw something he hadn’t noticed before—a sign on one of the porch pillars that read:
For Sale.
R. Blaisdell, Greeneville, N. Y.
Then he must still be near Greeneville, which was the nearest town to Borden’s estate. But that was obvious anyway—the real question was how he could be anywhere at all out of sight of where he’d been sitting only minutes ago. It was only seven o’clock, even now.
He shook his head to clear it. Amnesia? Had he walked here, wherever here was, without knowing it? It didn’t seem possible, particularly in minutes or less.
He looked uncertainly up and down the asphalt roadway, wondering which way to walk. There wasn’t another building in sight anywhere that he could see. But across the road were cultivated fields. If there was a farm there’d be a farmhouse. He decided to cross beyond the far row of poplars and see if he could see it from there. If not, he could just walk. Sooner or later he’d come to a place where he could ask questions and get his bearings.
He was halfway across the road when he heard the sound of the approaching car, still out of sight beyond the next rise. He went on to the far edge of the road, turned and waited. It wasn’t coming fast from the sound of it and maybe—
It came into sight, then, a Model T of ancient vintage that just barely seemed to make the top of the hill it had been climbing. Then, as it chugged and began to gather speed again coming toward him, Keith stepped out into the road and held up his hand. The Ford slowed down and stopped beside him.
The man at the wheel leaned over and lowered the window on Keith’s side. «Want a lift, mister?» he asked. He looked, Keith thought, almost too much like a farmer to be one. He was even chewing a long yellow straw, just the color of his hair, and his faded blue overalls matched his faded blue eyes.
Keith put a foot on the running board and leaned his head into the car through the open side window. He said, «I’m afraid I’m lost. Do you know where L.A. Borden’s place is?»
The farmer rolled the straw to the opposite corner of his mouth. He thought deeply, frowning with the effort.
«Nope,» he said, finally. «Never heard of him. Not on this road. Mebbe over on the pike. I don’t know all the farms there.»
«It isn’t a farm,» Keith told him. «A country estate. He’s a publisher. Where does this road go?»
«Greeneville ahead, ten miles, or so. Back t’other way it hits the Albany Highway at Carteret. Want a lift to Greeneville? Guess you can get your bearing there, find out where this Borden lives.»
«Sure,» Keith said. «Thanks.» He got into the car.
He was going to be late for dinner but at least he’d know where he was. In Greeneville he could phone Borden and then hire a car to drive him out. He’d be there by nine at the latest.
The old car chugged along the winding road. His benefactor didn’t seem to want to talk and Keith was glad of that. He wanted to think, instead, to try to figure out what possibly could have happened.
Borden’s estate was a big one. If the driver of the ancient jaloppy knew everybody along the road he couldn’t possibly not have heard of Borden’s place if it were very close. Yet it couldn’t be more than twenty miles away, because it was ten miles from Greeneville—and so was the spot where he’d been picked up along the road. Even if those ten-mile distances were in opposite directions. And even that far was silly, since it had been a matter of minutes at the most.
They were coming to the outskirts of a town now and he looked at his watch again. It was seven thirty-five. He looked out of the window of the car at the passing buildings—they were on a business street now—until he saw a clock in a window and compared his watch with it. The watch was right. It hadn’t stopped and started again.
The jaloppy swung into the curb and parked. «This is about the middle of town, mister,» the driver said. «Guess you can look up your party in the phone book and you’ll be all right.»
«Sure—that’s my best bet. Thanks a lot.» Keith went into the drugstore on the corner and to the phone booth at the back. There was a slender Greeneville phone book hanging by a chain from one side of the booth and he leafed through it to the B’s, and to—There wasn’t any Borden listed.
Keith frowned. Borden’s phone was in the Greeneville exchange. He remembered having called the number a time or two from New York City. And it had been a Greeneville number all right.
Could it be an unlisted number? That was possible, of course. Wait a minute—he ought to be able to remember it—it had been three numbers all alike—ones. That was it—Greeneville 111. He remembered wondering if Borden had used pull with the phone company to get himself a listing like that.
He pulled the door of the booth shut and found a nickel out of the change in his pocket. But the phone was a type he hadn’t seen before. There didn’t seem to be any slot for a coin to go in. Maybe they didn’t have coin phones in these little upstate towns, he decided, and he’d be supposed to pay the druggist for the call.
He picked up the receiver and, when an operator’s voice asked, «Number, please?» he gave it. There was a minute’s pause and then the operator’s voice came back. «There’s no such number listed, sir.»
For a second, Keith thought he must be going crazy. Then he shook his head. He asked, «You have a phone listed for L. A. Borden? I thought that was the number. Can’t find him listed in the phone book but I know he’s got a phone.»
«One minute, sir … No, there is no such name on our listings.»
«Thanks,» Keith said and put the receiver back.
He still didn’t believe it. He stepped out of the booth and picked up the phone book again. He looked in it again and there still wasn’t any L. A. Borden listed.