Die a Little Longer

But apparently her anger only momentarily had jarred him from inward contemplation. “Mr. Regan?” he asked in the tone of one half-listening.

“The real estate man.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Very reliable fellow.”

She preceded him through the downstairs, showing him the dining room, the study, the great sun porch and the kitchen.

“You have everything here you’d have in the city,” she told him, “except neighbors. Central heating, electricity, running water and even a telephone. Of course the phone keeps you awake all night because it rings for eight other parties on the line, but you can’t have everything and solitude too.”

“I see,” he said vaguely, with no smile on his face.

Being proudly interested in the house herself, he seemed to her disappointingly disinterested for a new tenant. She led him up the wide, heavy staircase to the second floor, showed him the big, old-fashioned bath at the head of the stairs, the four bedrooms, and indicated the wing where he would sleep that night on the folding metal cot.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do without sheets,” she told him. “But I kept out an extra blanket for my own bed, and you can have that.”

He was over by the window, looking down. “What’s that for?” he asked.

She moved over beside him and saw he was examining the two-foot edge of roofing which encircled the outside of the house between the lower and upper floors.

“That was Tom’s father doing,” she said, laughing. “Originally the house was one story, and when my husband’s father added the second, he saved material by letting the original roof stick out like that. Actually it isn’t unattractive from the ground. Gives a rather quaint effect. Tom calls it ‘the burglar’s walk.’ ”

As they went downstairs again she was rather piqued that he seemed to show such little interest in the house.

When he followed her out on the front porch, she said, “You’ll have to excuse me if I leave you to your own devices most of the day. I have five barrels of dishes to pack. Do you have to return to Kingston to check on your luggage?”

“No,” he said. “It won’t arrive tonight.”

“How did you get out here, anyway?” she asked, suddenly remembering she had seen no taxi when he first appeared at the gate.

“Caught a ride.” Abruptly he changed the subject. “May I help with your packing?”

“I’d appreciate it very much,” she said, pleased. “You can start wrapping those cups in newspaper while I run down to the box for mail. The mailman’s due now.” She indicated the stacked cups on the porch and the pile of old newspapers.

In the near distance she heard the backfire of Mr. Rawlin’s old sedan. And because she would not see the mailman again and wished to tell him good-by, she started to run toward the mailbox. The old man brought his car to a creaking halt, and when he saw Maida running down the lane, he waited for her.

“Nothing today but the paper, Mrs. Kirk.” He handed it out to her. “Guess you’ll be gone from here tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to tell you good-by and thanks for your excellent service. You’ve sort of kept me in touch with civilization these last weeks since Tom took the job in Kingston.”

“Guess you don’t see many people aside from me,” the old man agreed. “Kind of lonely for you.”

“I’ll be glad to be settled in Kingston,” Maida said. “But I will miss you, Mr. Rawlin.”

He smiled at her, pleased. “Miss you too, Mrs. Kirk.” He shifted into low and let the clutch out part way, then pressed down on the pedal again. “Almost forgot to tell you. Keep your place locked tonight and don’t let in no strangers. Crazy feller escaped from the state hospital over to Belmont.”

“Oh?” Maida said. “Anyone dangerous?”

“Well, not necessarily. Radio says he acts normal most times, and probably wouldn’t bother nobody unless they bothered him first. But anything gets him mad, he turns to a homey-cidal maniac. Probably he’ll never come near here, but no sense taking chances. You lock up tight.”

She said, “Thanks for the warning, hut I won’t be alone tonight. The new owner arrived a day early.”

Then she bit at her tongue, wondering what his old-fashioned rules of conduct would make of a married woman staying alone in the same house with a stranger. But apparently Mr. Rawlin had an entirely clean mind.

“Good,” he said. “Woman oughtn’t be alone out here, even if there wasn’t a homey-cidal maniac running around.”

When she got back to the porch her guest had wrapped several cups and was placing them carefully in one of the barrels.

Setting the newspaper on the porch rail, Maida said, “I thought we’d have chicken for lunch. I’ll kill it now, so it will have a chance to drain and cool before I fry it.”

He said, “I’ll kill it for you, if you like.”

She agreed willingly, for chicken-killing was a task she detested. “There’s only one left in the chicken house,” she said. She told him where to find the chicken house and the axe.