somebody breathing. “Hello,” I said again.
The receiver clicked in my ear as he hung up.
The creep, I thought. Or was it my friend this time, checking to see if I was still around? Then a sudden thought arrested me, and I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me before. It could be the same man. Maybe he wasn’t a psycho at all. Maybe it was a systematic and cold-blooded campaign to wreck her health and sanity and ruin her financially. And he’d wanted to get rid of me in case I was trying to help her.
But why? There was suspicion here, God knows, like a dark and ugly stain all over town, and distrust and antagonism, but they couldn’t explain a thing like this. A deliberate attempt to drive somebody crazy was worse than murder. It had to be the work of a hopelessly warped mind. But could a deranged mind call the shots the way he had last night? I didn’t know. The thing grew murkier every time you turned around.
Out behind the building I found some planks that would do to stand on, and dragged them up in front of No. 5. Just as I was throwing them down on the gravel a police car turned in from the highway. There was only one officer in it. He stopped and got out, a big man still in his twenties, with the build and movements of an athlete. He had a fleshy, good-looking face with a lot of assurance in it, a cleft chin, green eyes, and long dark hair meticulously combed. He could have attacked you with the creases in the khaki trousers and the short jacket, but he wouldn’t have needed to. The gunbelt about his waist carried a .45 with pearl handles, and dangling from the trouser belt was an embossed leather case containing his handcuffs. With only a few changes of uniform he could have just stepped off the set of Rose Marie, and I half expected him to burst into song. Cut it out, I thought. You’ve had a grouch on so long you hate everybody.
“Redfield?” I asked.
He gave me a negligent shake of the head. “Magruder.”
“I’m glad to see you,” I said. “My name’s Chatham.”
He contained his ecstasy over that with no great difficulty. “I hear you’re real antsy for somebody to look at that room,” he said. “So let’s look at it.”
I nodded towards the open doorway of No. 5. He strode over with the insolent grace of a bullfighter, his thumbs hooked in the gunbelt, and peered in.
“Hmmm,” he said. Then he turned and jerked his head at me. “All right. Get those planks in there.”
I glanced at him, but kept my mouth shut, and tossed the planks in. I felt like Sir Waller Raleigh. While I was standing on the second and dropping the third, which would reach opposite the bathroom door, he stepped inside.
Glancing around at the obscene and senseless ruin, he said casually, “Quite a mess, huh?”
“That was more or less the way it struck me,” I said. He paid no attention. I stepped over to look into the bathroom, and felt the proddings of rage again. He’d got the fixtures, all right. Both the tub and wash-basin had dark slashes across the bottom where he’d gouged the enamel off. I wondered how he’d managed to keep the noise down. Probably used a rubber mallet with the chisel, I thought. He’d also used the same tool to gouge long streaks across the tile on the walls. On the floor were two empty one-gallon glass jugs with the rubber stoppers lying beside them.
Magruder came up alongside me and peered in. He grinned. “That guy was in a real pet, wasn’t he?”
You asked for a cop and they sent you a comic-opera clown like this. I choked down a sarcastic remark that wouldn’t have helped the situation a great deal, and was just about to ask him where he wanted to start when he shrugged and said, “Well, that’s about it, huh?” He turned and went out.
I stared at his back in disbelief, but followed him. I caught up with him on the porch. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
He favored me with an indifferent glance and hitched up his gunbelt again. “I’ve seen it,
The receiver clicked in my ear as he hung up.
The creep, I thought. Or was it my friend this time, checking to see if I was still around? Then a sudden thought arrested me, and I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me before. It could be the same man. Maybe he wasn’t a psycho at all. Maybe it was a systematic and cold-blooded campaign to wreck her health and sanity and ruin her financially. And he’d wanted to get rid of me in case I was trying to help her.
But why? There was suspicion here, God knows, like a dark and ugly stain all over town, and distrust and antagonism, but they couldn’t explain a thing like this. A deliberate attempt to drive somebody crazy was worse than murder. It had to be the work of a hopelessly warped mind. But could a deranged mind call the shots the way he had last night? I didn’t know. The thing grew murkier every time you turned around.
Out behind the building I found some planks that would do to stand on, and dragged them up in front of No. 5. Just as I was throwing them down on the gravel a police car turned in from the highway. There was only one officer in it. He stopped and got out, a big man still in his twenties, with the build and movements of an athlete. He had a fleshy, good-looking face with a lot of assurance in it, a cleft chin, green eyes, and long dark hair meticulously combed. He could have attacked you with the creases in the khaki trousers and the short jacket, but he wouldn’t have needed to. The gunbelt about his waist carried a .45 with pearl handles, and dangling from the trouser belt was an embossed leather case containing his handcuffs. With only a few changes of uniform he could have just stepped off the set of Rose Marie, and I half expected him to burst into song. Cut it out, I thought. You’ve had a grouch on so long you hate everybody.
“Redfield?” I asked.
He gave me a negligent shake of the head. “Magruder.”
“I’m glad to see you,” I said. “My name’s Chatham.”
He contained his ecstasy over that with no great difficulty. “I hear you’re real antsy for somebody to look at that room,” he said. “So let’s look at it.”
I nodded towards the open doorway of No. 5. He strode over with the insolent grace of a bullfighter, his thumbs hooked in the gunbelt, and peered in.
“Hmmm,” he said. Then he turned and jerked his head at me. “All right. Get those planks in there.”
I glanced at him, but kept my mouth shut, and tossed the planks in. I felt like Sir Waller Raleigh. While I was standing on the second and dropping the third, which would reach opposite the bathroom door, he stepped inside.
Glancing around at the obscene and senseless ruin, he said casually, “Quite a mess, huh?”
“That was more or less the way it struck me,” I said. He paid no attention. I stepped over to look into the bathroom, and felt the proddings of rage again. He’d got the fixtures, all right. Both the tub and wash-basin had dark slashes across the bottom where he’d gouged the enamel off. I wondered how he’d managed to keep the noise down. Probably used a rubber mallet with the chisel, I thought. He’d also used the same tool to gouge long streaks across the tile on the walls. On the floor were two empty one-gallon glass jugs with the rubber stoppers lying beside them.
Magruder came up alongside me and peered in. He grinned. “That guy was in a real pet, wasn’t he?”
You asked for a cop and they sent you a comic-opera clown like this. I choked down a sarcastic remark that wouldn’t have helped the situation a great deal, and was just about to ask him where he wanted to start when he shrugged and said, “Well, that’s about it, huh?” He turned and went out.
I stared at his back in disbelief, but followed him. I caught up with him on the porch. “What do you mean, that’s it?”
He favored me with an indifferent glance and hitched up his gunbelt again. “I’ve seen it,
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