from George LeBay. I told him about the handwriting on my casts, and how the one Arnie had done on Thanksgiving night matched his brother's signature on Christine's original registration form. I told him about Arnie's constant use of the word 'shitters'. The way he had started combing his hair like Fabian, or one of those other fifties greaseballs. I told him everything, in fact, except what had happened to me on my ride home early on New Year's morning. I had intended to, but I simply could not do it. I never let that out of myself until I wrote all of this down four years later.
When I finished, there was a silence on the line.
'Mr LeBay? Are you still there?'
'I'm here,' he said finally. 'Mr Guilder - Dennis - I don't intend to offend you, but you must realize that what you are suggesting goes far beyond any possible psychic phenomena and extends into .'He trailed off.
'Madness?'
'That isn't the word I would have used. From what you say, you were involved in a terrible football accident. You were in the hospital for two months, and in great pain for some of that time. Now isn't it possible that your imagination - '
'Mr LeBay,' I said 'did your brother ever have a saying about the little tramp?'
'What?'
'The little tramp. Like when you throw a ball of paper at the wastebasket and hit it, you say "Two points." Only instead of that, "Watch me put it up the little tramp's ass." Did your brother ever say that?'
'How did you know that?' And then, without giving me time to answer: 'He used the phrase on one of the occasions when you met him, didn't he?'
'No.
'Mr Guilder, you're a liar.'
I said nothing. I was shaking, weak-kneed. No adult had ever said that to me in my whole life.
'Dennis, I'm sorry. But my brother is dead. He was an unpleasant, possibly even an evil human being, but he is dead and all of these morbid fancies and fantasies 'Who was the little tramp?' I managed.
Silence.
'Was it Charlie Chaplin?'
I didn't think he was going to reply at all. Then, at last, heavily, he said, 'Only at second hand. He meant Hitler. There was a passing resemblance between Hitler and Chaplin's little tramp. Chaplin made a movie called The Great Dictator. You've probably never even seen it. It was a common enough name for him during the war years, at any rate. You would be much too young to remember. But it means nothing.'
It was my turn to remain silent.
'It means nothing!' he shouted. 'Nothing! It's vapours and suggestions, nothing more! You must see this!'
' There are seven people dead over here in western Pennsylvania,' I said. 'That's not just vapours. There are the signatures on my casts. They're not vapours, either. I saved them, Mr LeBay. Let me send them to you. Look at them and tell me if one of them isn't your brother's handwriting.'
'It could be a knowing or unknowing forgery.'
'If you believe that, get a handwriting expert. I'll pay for it.'
You could do that yourself.'
'Mr LeBay,' I said, 'I don't need any more convincing.'
'But what do you want from me? To share your fantasy? I won't do that. My brother is dead. His car is just a car.' He was lying. I felt it. Even through the telephone I felt it.
'I want you to explain something you said to me that night we talked.'
'What would that be?' He sounded wary.
I licked my lips. 'You said he was obsessed and angry, but he wasn't a monster. At least, you said, you didn't, think he was. Then it seemed like you changed the subject completely . . . but the more I think about it, the more I think you didn't change the subject at all. The next thing you said was that he never put a mark on either of them.'
'Dennis, really. I - '
'Look, if you were going to say something, for Christ's sake, say it now!' I cried. My voice cracked. I wiped my forehead, and my hand came away slimy with sweat. 'This is no easier for me than it is for you, Arnie's fixated on this girl, her name is Leigh Cabot, only I don't think it's Arnie who's fixated on her at all, I think it's your brother, your dead brother, now talk to me, please!'
He sighed.
'Talk to you?' he said. 'Talk to you? To talk about these old events . . . no, these old suspicions