Nightlines by John Lutz Page A

Graham Bell had ever suspected that someday the thing would speak back of its own accord, that it would bring so much heartache as well as convenience. He might have. Maybe he’d mentioned it. Nudger tried to remember the Don Ameche film but couldn’t.
    He got the phone directory from the desk’s bottom left drawer and leafed through its dogeared thin pages, squinting at its headache-inducing fine print until he found a listing for A. Boyington. There was no Agnes Boyington listed.
    A. Boyington’s address was in the city’s fashionable central west end.
    Nudger slid the phone over to him and began to punch out the number, then he hesitated and replaced the receiver. He decided not to use the phone.
    The A. Boyington in the directory might not be Agnes, but the chance that it was made it worth Nudger’s time to drive to the address to try to take her by surprise, so she’d be unprepared for their conversation.
    Nudger thought it might be fun to catch her in her old clothes painting the porch glider. Or cleaning up after the dog or masturbating or watching “Family Feud” on TV.
    If Agnes Boyington did such things.
    XI I
    he A. Boyington address belonged to a large, squarish two-story house on Lindell Boulevard, a wide four-lane street bordering Forest Park. Though Lindell was heavily traveled, especially during morning and evening rush hours, the houses were divorced from the traffic, set well back on meticulously tended artificial-looking green lawns, and were expensive and luxurious. This house was of white brick, with a red tile roof, black shutters, and a colo nial porch that boasted tall fluted white columns supporting a peaked roof with its own tiny cupola.
    Nudger looked the place over with some envy and an inevitable subtle feeling of inferiority, as if he had no business being here in his down-at-the-heels shoes and clattering little car. His very presence was an affront. Agnes Boyington was a woman of at least moderate wealth; Nudger was no stranger to the cluttered aisles of K-mart.
    He drove up the hedge-bordered, smooth blacktop driveway and parked by the porch. As he climbed from the car he noticed that shade trees—oaks and fast-growing maples—had been strategically planted so that the street was barely visible despite its relative nearness. The occasional swishing of passing cars was a mere suggestion of Lindell Boulevard’s presence. From the rise on which the house sat, he could see the park across the street, a leafy expanse of green.
    On the porch was a push button for a doorbell, as well as a fancy brass knocker at eye level on the door. Nudger ignored the button. He’d rattled the round brass knocker only once before Agnes Boyington opened the door.
    Cool air from the house drifted out. Or was Agnes Boy ington emitting that coolness?
    “So, Mr. Nudger,” she said, as if not at all surprised to find him standing on her porch. She was dressed up, wearing a dark blue dress, navy-blue high heels, an expensive-looking double-looped pearl necklace. She was also wearing white gloves that extended most of the way up her forearms. Nudger didn’t think anyone wore white gloves anymore except to keep their hands warm. Yet here it was a hot summer evening and Agnes Boyington had on spotless soft white gloves. Nudger supposed that was class. He could think of no other explanation.
    “We have matters to discuss,” Nudger said.
    “I have an appointment in half an hour,” she told him, “but I suppose I have time to write your check.” She turned and went back inside, leaving the tall door open as an invitation to Nudger. Or maybe he was expected to wait on the porch. He walked inside.
    He was standing in a hall with white walls and a terrazzo floor of many subdued colors. There were no wall hangings and only a few pieces of furniture: a complexly constructed brass coatrack that looked like a metallic tree without leaves, an oval mahogany table on which sat a fancy fat lamp with a Tiffany glass