closer. Yesterday morning the bedsheets had burst into flame—spontaneous combustion, just like the five-dollar bill at Watson’s, just like Murray LeRoy.
He noticed suddenly that there were a couple of limbs broken off the hydrangea beneath the window, hanging by strips of bark. The dirt of the flowerbed was stomped down, the outlines of shoe soles in the wet soil clearly visible even in the moonlight. It took a moment to work it out: somebody had been there snooping around. And not the gardener, either; he hadn’t been on the property since Thursday.
Argyle thought suddenly about the parcel he’d found last night on the porch. He hadn’t looked closely at it, at the box itself; he’d been too anxious to get at the contents, and had simply slit the thing open and dumped it out, only to find that the item he wanted, that he had been waiting for, was missing.
It hadn’t occurred to him that it might have been stolen. Now he was certain it had.
Someone had meddled with the address on the box. They’d crossed out the name
Dilworth
and written in
Argyle
. Why? Who would have done such a thing? The man in China who gathered these things for him knew him only as Dilworth. The post office? It didn’t seem likely that they’d mark up the outside of the box like this. They never had before. He switched on the lamp on the dresser and peered closely at it. It was easy to see, now that he looked, that the box had been opened and then re-taped.
He looked closely at the handwriting in the rewritten name—the vertical, elongated letters, the way the
G
looked like a pulled-apart number eight, the way the
A
was crossed with a line about twice as long as necessary. It was Walt Stebbins’s handwriting. Stebbins had got hold of the box, opened it, ditched the invoice, and stolen the only thing of real value in it.
How could he have known what it was?
Probably he didn’t; he was just being a meddlesome hick, and this was some kind of pathetic joke.
Of course Stebbins could be compelled to return it. The thought came to him that perhaps he should spare Walt for Ivy’s sake.
Ivy … He stood for a moment, thinking about her, about them, him and Ivy—about the way things had been only a few short years ago—and suddenly he knew he was wrong: Walt Stebbins wasn’t any kind of asset to her, and the world would be a happier place if he fell off the edge of it and disappeared.
He pulled on his bathrobe and walked out of the room, up the hall, and across a broad living room heavy with oak moldings and built-in cabinets. Another narrow hall led off the living room, and he followed it to a locked door at the end, switching on the hallway lamp and taking a key from his pocket. He opened the door and stepped into a room furnished with an easy chair and bookcases. On the floor lay a coffin-sized packing crate, the wooden lid covered with Chinese ideographs. He leaned over and opened the lid, tilting it back on recessed hinges. Within lay a body. It might have been his identical twin. Did it look dead, or merely asleep?
Without the item that Stebbins had taken from the carton, the thing in the box might as well be dead. What if he never recovered it? What if that fool Stebbins had destroyed it out of common stupidity?
Full of a sudden fear, he closed the box, locked the room, and went into his study, where he picked up the phone and punched in Flanagan’s number. Of course the bastard wouldn’t be in. He was never in. He kept you waiting and wondering….
“Flanagan.”
The voice startled him. “It’s me,” he said breathlessly.
“I know who it is.”
“Can you help me? Have you considered my offer?”
“It would be better if you helped yourself.”
“So what? Do you want more? Is that it?”
“It’s quite likely that you can’t buy your way out of this, that you’re wasting your money.”
Argyle laughed out loud. “
Wasting
it? That’s rich. How much was Murray LeRoy worth when he went down that
He noticed suddenly that there were a couple of limbs broken off the hydrangea beneath the window, hanging by strips of bark. The dirt of the flowerbed was stomped down, the outlines of shoe soles in the wet soil clearly visible even in the moonlight. It took a moment to work it out: somebody had been there snooping around. And not the gardener, either; he hadn’t been on the property since Thursday.
Argyle thought suddenly about the parcel he’d found last night on the porch. He hadn’t looked closely at it, at the box itself; he’d been too anxious to get at the contents, and had simply slit the thing open and dumped it out, only to find that the item he wanted, that he had been waiting for, was missing.
It hadn’t occurred to him that it might have been stolen. Now he was certain it had.
Someone had meddled with the address on the box. They’d crossed out the name
Dilworth
and written in
Argyle
. Why? Who would have done such a thing? The man in China who gathered these things for him knew him only as Dilworth. The post office? It didn’t seem likely that they’d mark up the outside of the box like this. They never had before. He switched on the lamp on the dresser and peered closely at it. It was easy to see, now that he looked, that the box had been opened and then re-taped.
He looked closely at the handwriting in the rewritten name—the vertical, elongated letters, the way the
G
looked like a pulled-apart number eight, the way the
A
was crossed with a line about twice as long as necessary. It was Walt Stebbins’s handwriting. Stebbins had got hold of the box, opened it, ditched the invoice, and stolen the only thing of real value in it.
How could he have known what it was?
Probably he didn’t; he was just being a meddlesome hick, and this was some kind of pathetic joke.
Of course Stebbins could be compelled to return it. The thought came to him that perhaps he should spare Walt for Ivy’s sake.
Ivy … He stood for a moment, thinking about her, about them, him and Ivy—about the way things had been only a few short years ago—and suddenly he knew he was wrong: Walt Stebbins wasn’t any kind of asset to her, and the world would be a happier place if he fell off the edge of it and disappeared.
He pulled on his bathrobe and walked out of the room, up the hall, and across a broad living room heavy with oak moldings and built-in cabinets. Another narrow hall led off the living room, and he followed it to a locked door at the end, switching on the hallway lamp and taking a key from his pocket. He opened the door and stepped into a room furnished with an easy chair and bookcases. On the floor lay a coffin-sized packing crate, the wooden lid covered with Chinese ideographs. He leaned over and opened the lid, tilting it back on recessed hinges. Within lay a body. It might have been his identical twin. Did it look dead, or merely asleep?
Without the item that Stebbins had taken from the carton, the thing in the box might as well be dead. What if he never recovered it? What if that fool Stebbins had destroyed it out of common stupidity?
Full of a sudden fear, he closed the box, locked the room, and went into his study, where he picked up the phone and punched in Flanagan’s number. Of course the bastard wouldn’t be in. He was never in. He kept you waiting and wondering….
“Flanagan.”
The voice startled him. “It’s me,” he said breathlessly.
“I know who it is.”
“Can you help me? Have you considered my offer?”
“It would be better if you helped yourself.”
“So what? Do you want more? Is that it?”
“It’s quite likely that you can’t buy your way out of this, that you’re wasting your money.”
Argyle laughed out loud. “
Wasting
it? That’s rich. How much was Murray LeRoy worth when he went down that
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