The Glass Village by Ellery Queen Page A

the fauna. Quite the contrary. And when it was all ‘over’—as if it’s over!—the hopelessness simply shifted from one phase into another. But it was the same damned thing. More TV commercials. More gripes about taxes. More politicians promising better protection for less dough. And more speeches at the UN. And—always—bigger and better bombs.
    â€œI’m not being emotional about this,” said Johnny. “I dream some, but I manage to sleep. … You take this Commie business. Suppose there were no Commies. There’d still be Africa, India, China—there’d still be Spain and Germany, and the Arabs, and the Peronistas—there’d still be a world full of poverty, hate, ambition, greed. There’d still be atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, nerve gas. And there’d still be the book burners and the witch hunters and the doubletalkers. About the only note of reassurance the brass keep sounding is that we’ve got all of three years left before the bombs start falling. … So what do you want me to do, Judge—find a job, get married, have kids, buy a house, water a lawn, save up for Junior’s college and my old age? What for?”
    The Judge was silent.
    Johnny said apologetically, “Well, you asked me. Mind if I hit the sack?”
    He went into the house and climbed the polished stairway to his musty bedroom to try out Coroner Barnwell’s parting advice.
    After a long time, Judge Shinn followed.
    Johnny was awakened from his dream by the church bell. His first drowsy thought was, What a nice way to be reminded that I promised myself to attend Mr. Sheare’s service Sunday morning. But as his senses sharpened it seemed to him the reminder was too insistent. The old bell, with its flat and cracked clang, was pealing away like a 1900 fire alarm.
    He rolled out of bed and went to a window.
    The people were running toward their church from all directions. He saw Burney Hackett burst out of his house on the south corner, struggling to get into his Sunday jacket and hold on to his gun at the same time. Peter Berry came lumbering up Four Corners Road from his house behind the store as if a bull were after him. Children were darting everywhere, surrounded by wildly barking dogs. The Pangmans and Prue Plummer were trotting down the middle of Shinn Road, urging one another on. Two cars shot up to the north corner, one from the south and the other from the west, almost colliding at the intersection. One deposited Dave Hemus, Merton Isbel, and Calvin Waters, the other Drakeley Scott and his mother. A group was already waiting before the church; Johnny saw Samuel Sheare and his stout wife hurrying across the lawn from the parsonage, their faces unnaturally white.
    Then Judge Shinn pounded on his door.
    â€œJohnny, get up!”
    â€œWhat’s happening?”
    â€œSomeone was posted out beyond Comfort, near the Petunxit police barracks. Just phoned a warning in. The state police are on their way over. Damn Barnwell!”
    Johnny threw on his clothes and scuttled downstairs.
    They were all congregated now—every man, woman, and child of the village except the Scott invalids and the hermit of Holy Hill. The women and children huddled on the steps of the church. The men and older boys were deployed in a loose arc formation before them, covering the approach to the church and the drive on its east side where the cellar windows were. Judge Shinn and Mr. Sheare were talking earnestly to Hubert Hemus and Burney Hackett. Ferriss Adams paced nearby, nibbling his fingernails.
    Johnny got across to the north corner just as two state police cars and a private car came up Shinn Road from the direction of Comfort at a leisurely gait. They slowed down at the intersection and fanned out a little; then they stopped. Both police cars were full; the passenger car held one man.
    The driver of the passenger car, a big stout man in a blue-striped seersucker suit and a