you out there, you want this telephone or don't you."
Smith with a large leap took the four grey stairs landing on the porch at speed. A commotion inside. Hick levelling the blunderbuss at this sudden assaulting shadow. One thing to be squeezed out in a population explosion and distinctly another to be blasted for sprightliness.
The double grey doors on the porch opening. A squat man with strands of grey in the hair. Under a blue woolly dressing gown his shirt showing with the detached collar missing. Shuffling ahead of Smith, heels of his slippers clacking. Telephone hanging on the wall. Next to a colored white bowl with a great green flower.Wow, little spine shiver, seen one other flower like that. Just one second before the alligator tried to clamp its jaws on my arm in the Jiffy conservatory. And how does one work this antique telephone.
"Just wind her up mister."
"I see."
"Operator's usually asleep this time of night. Sorry I kinda levelled my gun at you. You came up them steps kinda fast."
"Where are we here."
"This is called Green Flower Corners. After the flower."
"O."
"Down the dirt road three miles, is the main route. Past the cemetery. Turn left follow the dirt road. You'll see signs."
"Thank you. Hello. Operator."
"Hello."
"Operator, I want the Hotel Boar."
"Sir, don't you know the number."
"I think it's Bug 2-7222. But there's a life at stake. Do please look it up."
"Please spell that, caller."
"B for bugger, U for unseemly, G for goose."
"Pardon but gee I like your voice, it's really cultured. I'll connect you."
"Thank you, operator."
Little clicks, strange small sounds of voices on these wires over fields and through deserted woods.
"Here's your party, sir."
"Hello, this is George Smith, I want to speak to the maitre de hotel."
"He's asleep, this is Norbert can I help yon, Mr. Smith."
"Hello Norbert, this is an emergency. I require a suite within the hour."
"O sure, like the last time you needed it £ast."
"I beg your pardon."
"Sorry Mr. Smith, I was meaning maybe the same suite. Saw your picture in the papers. Gee, just like to ask a question, what's your recipe for success Mr. Smith."
"Keep your mind free of emotional ingredients when looking for profits."
"Gosh. Simple as that."
"Yes. I'm in rather a hurry, if you wouldn't mind organising."
"O sure. Good to talk to someone who knows what he's talking about."
"I'd like the key left in the lock of the suite."
"Now this emotional ingredient, that how you function, Mr. Smith, I mean pardon me for asking this time of night."
"Morning."
"Yeah morning."
"And I'm imposing upon the graciousness of a country citizen. This is an emergency."
"O sure. Just remembering that. Free the mind of emotional ingredients when looking for profits. I need investment advice. My wife wants to know why you want to spend all that good money getting buried."
"If you don't mind Norbert, the suite. Flowers and hot punch if you will."
"Sure, Mr. Smith. Good to hear from you again. Just goes to shows, my whole life I've been getting all emotional looking for a profit. The key will be in the tunnel entrance."
"In the door of the suite, please."
"Sure Mr. Smith, anything you want, you know me, boy I'll bet you've got some doll tonight—"
Smith lightly hanging the little ear piece on the fragile hook. Hick turning from the door where he was peering out in the night. At what must be Miss Tomson. That gun makes me nervous. Don't suppose he's ever seen her likes before in tight blue satin, slippered in gold and silver twiddling a pine cone in this vague neck of the woods. He may make bombs in his attic. George Smith tendering a crisp treasury bill.
"Nope stranger."
Smith taking leave gently on the grey porch. With a thanks a million. Once is enough stranger. And stepping down three steps to the hard path underneath the three great trees at the fork of this road. Turning to look back. The shadow standing in the light of the hall, gun at port arms. People who live in the country like strangers to call out of the blue.
The dirt road goes down winding, twisting and turning. Lights flooding the passing woods enclosed in an endless wire fence. A small pond. Up on a hill again faint grave stones of a cemetery. Apples must grow there and drop on the dead in summertime full of flavour. Handfuls of hair round Miss Tomson's head. Turn right at this turn, Miss Tomson, left at the next. Silent cruising through the night. South. Catching up with the storm