Girl Meets Body. Jack Iams
it hung an overcast seascape in oil, framed in gilt, and on the opposite wall a stuffed tarpon was mounted on a board with printed data regarding its demise, also in gilt.
Beyond the living-room, through French doors, was a library, considerably smaller and lined with glass-doored bookcases. It contained a roll-top desk.
Across the hallway was the dining-room with big curtained windows and paintings of dead fish and rabbits and ducks that looked down on a heavy oval table and chairs of oak.
“Darling,” said Sybil, looking around her, “I have been a goose. It’s going to be lovely. I knew Mr. Magruder would take care of us.”
“Mr. Magruder and his leprechauns,” said Tim. “I must admit it’s a darned sight better than anything I expected. Shall we explore upstairs?”
“I’d like to explore a bathroom,” said Sybil. She glanced toward the staircase, from the head of which came the faint sound of windows rattling in the wind. “Wonder if there’s one on this floor,” she added with a sheepish grin. “I’m not quite ready to go poking upstairs.”
Tim tried a door under the staircase. “Here’s a lavatory,” he said. “I’ll be bringing in the bags.”
It took him several trips to bring in all of Sybil’s trim airplane luggage and his own collection of old suitcases and duffel bags, which he piled in the hallway for the time being. Sybil emerged from the lavatory and said, “Damn. The w.c. doesn’t flush.”
“We’ll put the leprechaun on it tomorrow,” said Tim.
“How would that help?”
“I mean on the job of fixing it.”
“Oh,” said Sybil. “I wondered. What was his name again?”
“Elias Whittlebait.”
“Lovely name. Must be a lovely little man. And how about a lovely little dry martini before we unpack?”
“Fine. Let’s see, one of these duffel bags has the drinkables in it.”
He found the right bag, by ear, and carried it into the kitchen. Sybil, following, gave a little cry of womanly pleasure at its shiny whiteness. “What beautiful things I’ll cook for you here,” she exclaimed. “Beginning with the martinis. You can be lighting the fire while I mix ’em.”
Tim went back to the living-room and knelt in front of the fireplace. He touched a match to the wadded paper under the logs and watched with enjoyment as tiny shoots of flame burst upward, gathering momentum until the fireplace was full of crackling light.
“Tim!” He heard Sybil’s voice across the hall, sharp and taut. “Tim!”
He turned on his haunches to see her coming toward him from the dining-room. Her face was white.
“There’s someone moving around on the porch,” she said.
“Must be the wind.”
“No,” said Sybil. “Look!” She pointed toward the dining-room window. Unmistakably, against its dark pane, was pressed a man’s face.
“Probably Elias Whittlebait having a look around,” said Tim. Even to him, the words sounded hollow.
“Why wouldn’t he come to the front door?”
“Don’t know. I’ll soon find out, though.” He started toward the door.
“Wait,” said Sybil. “Take this.” She picked up the poker from its rack by the fireplace and thrust it at him.
“What would I do with that?” asked Tim.
“I don’t know,” said Sybil, “but it’ll make me feel better.”
“All right,” said Tim, trying to smile at her. He took the poker and went to the front door. The wind thudded against it as he turned the knob, as if it had been wailing for a long time to get in. The comfortable solidity of the house dissolved suddenly into the eerie loneliness that had hung over it when they arrived. Tim gripped the poker and pushed the door open.
“Who’s there?” he called.
For a moment, there was only the rush of the wind and the roar of the surf. Then a thickset figure emerged from the shadows along the porch and, in the thin glow of the lamp overhead, Tim saw a pistol pointed at him.
Chapter Six
No Fourth For Bridge
“Better drop that poker,” said the man with the pistol.
Tim thought he better had, too, but he also thought he should show some gumption. “Why?” he asked.
“Because I have you covered with a thirty-two automatic, son, and I’m in a position to give orders.” The man’s voice was gruff and businesslike, but not unfriendly. Tim could see him more clearly now. He appeared to be past middle age and he was wearing a buttoned-up windbreaker and a soft hat.
“Guess you’re right,” said Tim, and let the poker fall.
“That’s better,” said the man. “Suppose you tell me just what you’re doing here?”
“I’m living here,” said Tim.
The man’s eyes seemed to be gauging him for a moment, then, as if he’d reached a decision, he put the automatic into his pocket. “If you live here, son,” he said, “then I’m probably trespassing. Are you the veteran with the English bride?”
“Yep.”
“In that case, I owe you an apology. Never dreamed you’d get here so quick.” He stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “My name is Squareless. John Squareless. I live in the house across the inlet.”
“Glad to meet you,” said Tim, shaking his hand.
“I saw your lights and thought something queer was going on. Didn’t expect you for another week. So I rowed over for a look.”
“On horseback?”
“Rowboat. Quicker than walking around by the bridge and better exercise. Well, sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Tim. “Won’t you come in?”
Squareless hesitated. Tim got the curious impression that he wanted to come in very much but that something was holding him back. Just then Sybil appeared in the doorway’s square of light. “Hullo,” she said, “what’s up?”
“Turns out to be a neighborly call,” said Tim. “This is Mr. Squareless, from across the way.”
“Delighted,” said Sybil. “It must have been your lights We saw.”
“No doubt,” said Squareless. He was staring hard at Sybil, so hard that it became embarrassing, as he finally seemed to realize. “Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help thinking for a moment that I’d met you before.”
“It’s not impossible. I’ve knocked around.”
“So’ve I,” said Squareless. “But I was mistaken. It was someone you reminded me of. Sorry. Well—”
“Do come in,” said Sybil. “I was just mixing a cocktail.”
“You’re very kind,” said Squareless. Again he hesitated and again he seemed to reach a decision. “All right. For a few minutes.”
He walked into the hall and hung his hat and windbreaker on the serpentine coat-stand. Tim saw now that he was a man of perhaps sixty, built so solidly as to seem shorter than his five feet nine or ten but with an easy grace to his movements. He looked like someone who had lived robustly and well. His face was a rounded, ruddy, outdoors face with a blunt nose and a mouth that was slow to smile but smiled thoroughly when it did. His hair was sparse and grizzled. It struck Tim that he bore a close resemblance to Winston Churchill; close, but no cigar.
“Take