Trumps of doom

As I sat there; I began to think that maybe I ought to leave a note of my own and move on. My mysterious correspondent - conceivably S - had phoned here once and broken in once. How S had known I was here was immaterial. It was a friend's house, and though I did not mind sharing some of my problems with friends, I did not like the idea of exposing them to danger. But then, it was daylight now and the meeting was set for this evening. Not that much longer till some sort of resolution was achieved. Almost silly to depart at this point. In fact, it was probably better that I hang around till then. I could keep an eye on things, protect Bill if anything came up today

Suddenly, I had a vision of someone forcing Bill to write that note at gunpoint, then whisking him away as a hostage to pressure me into answering questions.

I hurried back to the kitchen and phoned his office. Horace Crayper, his secretary, answered on the second ring. «Hi, this is Merle Corey,» I said. «Is Mr. Roth in?»

«Yes,» he replied, «but he's with a client right now. Could I have him call you back?»

«No, it's not that important,» I said, «and I'll be seeing him later. Don't bother him. Thanks.» I poured myself another cup of coffee and returned to the porch. This sort of thing was bad for the nerves. I decided that if everything wasn't squared away this evening I would leave.

A figure rounded the corner of the house.

«Hi, MerIe.»

It was George Hansen. Frakir gave me the tiniest of pulses, as if beginning a warning and then reconsidering it. Ambiguous. Unusual.

«Hi, George. How's it going?»

«Pretty well. Is Mr. Roth in?»

«Afraid not. He had to go into town for a while. I imagine he'll be back around lunchtime or a little after.»

«Oh. A few days ago he'd asked me to stop by when I was free, about some work he wanted done.»

He came nearer, put his foot on the step. I shook my head.

«Can't help you. He didn't mention it to me. You'll have to catch him later.»

He nodded, unwound his pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it, then rewound the pack in his shirt sleeves. This T-shirt was a Pink Floyd.

«How are you enjoying your stay?» he asked.

«Real well. You care for a cup of coffee?»

«Don't mind if I do.»

I rose and went inside.

«With a little cream and sugar,» he called after me.

I fixed him one and when I returned with it he was seated in the other chair on the porch.

«Thanks.» After he'd tasted it, he said, «I know your dad's name's Carl even though Mr. Roth said Sam. His memory must've slipped.»

«Or his tongue,» I said. He smiled.

What was it about the way he talked? His voice could almost be the one I'd heard on the phone last night, though that one had been very controlled and slowed just enough to neutralize any number of speech clues. It wasn't that comparison that was bothering me.

«He was a retired military officer, wasn't he? And some sort of government consultant?»

«Yes.»

«Where is he now?»

«Doing a lot of travelling - overseas.»

«You going to see him on your own trip?»

«I hope so.»

«That'll be nice,» he said, taking a drag on his cigarette and another sip of coffee. «Ah! that's good!»

«I don't remember seeing you around,» he said suddenly then. «You never lived with your dad, huh?»

«No, I grew up with my mother and other relatives.»

«Pretty far from here, huh?»

I nodded. «Overseas.»

«What was her name?»

I almost told him. I'm not certain why, but I changed it to «Dorothy» before it came out.

I glanced at him in time to see him purse his lips. He had been studying my face as I spoke.

«Why do you ask?» I said.

«No special reason. Or genetic nosiness, you might say. My mother was the town gossip.»

He laughed and gulped coffee.

«Will you be staying long?» he asked then.

«Hard to say. Probably not real long, though.»

«Well, I hope you have a good time of it.» He finished his coffee and set the cup on the railing. He rose then, stretched and added, «Nice talking to you.»

Partway down the stairs he paused and turned.

«I've a feeling you'll go far,» he told me. «Good luck.»

«You may, too,» I said. «You've a way with words.»

«Thanks for the coffee. See you around.»

«Yes.» He turned the corner and was gone. I simply didn't know what to make of him, and after several attempts I gave up. When inspiration is silent reason tires quickly.

I was making myself a sandwich when Bill returned, so I made two. He went and changed clothes while I was doing this.

«I'm supposedly taking it easy this month,» he said while we were eating, «but that was an old client with some pressing business, so I had to go in. What say we follow the creek in the other direction this afternoon?»

«Sure.» As we hiked across the field I told him of George's visit.

«No,» he said, «I didn't tell him I had any jobs for him.»

«In other words -»

«I guess he came by to see you. It would have been easy enough to see me leave, from their place.»

«I wish I knew what he wanted.»

«If it's important enough he'll probably wind up asking you, in time.»

«But time is running,» I said. «I've decided to leave tomorrow morning, maybe even tonight.»