me, and when she finally stirred and pushed back on my chest her eyes were wet.
“Jack,” she whispered, “I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said. “Just hang on.”
“But you’re up to something.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not anything dangerous. Not as dangerous as running now would be.”
“But what is it? Don’t you see I have to know?”
“All right,” I said. “But it may not pan out. That’s the only reason I didn’t want to tell you. It all depends on what I find out in town. I’m going to try to make it look as if he killed me.”
Thirteen
It was nearly seven when I got back to town. The sun was down, but the air was still and heat lay stagnant and suffocating in the streets. I started to go on up to the courthouse, but remembered it would be closed now, and since I’d have to get the custodian to let me in the building there was no use in hurrying. He probably wouldn’t be there to start cleaning up until nearly eight. Impatient and savage at the delay but still trying to tell myself there was no hurry, that I had all night to find out what I wanted to know, I turned in at the house. At least I could get out of the sweaty fishing clothes and take a shower.
As I was turning the key in the back door I heard the telephone ringing inside. The key stuck for a minute, and while I worked with it I could hear the ringing going on with that shrill, waspish insistence a telephone always has in an empty house. Just as I got the door open and started through the kitchen it quit. Well, the hell with it, I thought.
There was a postcard from Louise, the usual picture of a yellow beach covered with parasols and a Prussian-blue ocean in the background. “We’re having a fine time,” she said. I threw it in on the bed and started to undress for the shower. At least, I thought, she didn’t ask for money this time. The shower felt wonderful. I turned it on hot, then cold, then hot again, feeling my nerves begin to unwind and a little of the tightness go out of me. And then, in the middle of it, the telephone started in again. Oh, for Christ’s sake, I thought, and let it ring. It went on, seeming to grow shriller and more angry as the seconds passed, and finally I turned off the water and reached for a towel. Just as I came out of the shower stall it stopped.
I dried myself, wrapped the towel around my waist, and went out in the kitchen. Getting a couple of ice cubes out of the refrigerator, I poured a glass half full of bourbon and ran a little water in it. By the time the first two swallows had gone down I could feel myself settling like a punctured balloon. I hadn’t realized how taut I’d been now for hours. It’ll be all right in a few days, I thought. It’ll wear off, and I won’t think about it. I know I won’t. The telephone started again.
This time I got to it, still carrying the drink. “Hello,” I said impatiently. “Marshall speaking.”
“Where have you been?” It was Buford, and I could hear the cold anger in his voice. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.” I could feel the tightness coming back. Something had happened.
“I had a little private business to attend to,” I said. I knew I had a bawling out coming to me for going off without telling him, so if he wanted to give it to me now, this was as good a time as any.
“Well, next time how about letting me know about it? I might have to get in touch with you.”
“Right,” I said. “I see what you mean.”
“No. You don’t. You don’t know how much I mean. I want to see you right away.”
“All right. What’s up?”
“All hell’s broken loose. But I can’t talk about it over the phone. Get over here as fast as you can.”
“Where are you?”
“A friend’s place. That four-story apartment house on Georgia street. Apartment Three.”
“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” I hung up. I had an idea about the “friend’s place,” but I’d never been there or even known where it was. Buford was a bachelor and lived with his mother in a big ugly gingerbread house built by his