He had an extremely busy day planned, extremely busy, with appointments every half hour or so and lots of telephone calls to make.
The carnival was well established: one major attraction had been tested successfully; the time to start up all the rides at once was now near at hand. As always when he reached this point, whether in Lebanon, Ankara, the western provinces of Canada, or right here in Hicksville, U.S.A he felt there were just not enough hours in the day. Yet one bent every effort toward one's goal, for busy hands were happy hands, and to strive was in itself noble, and.... and if his old eyes did not deceive him, the day's second customer, Yvette Gendron, was hurrying up the sidewalk toward the canopy right now.
"Busy, busy, busy day," Mr. Gaunt murmured, and fixed a large, welcoming smile on his face.
2
Alan Pangborn arrived at his own office at eight-thirty, and there was already a message slip taped to the side of his phone. Henry Payton of the State Police had called at seven-forty-five. He wanted Alan to return the call ASAP. Alan settled into his chair, placed the telephone between his ear and his shoulder, and hit the button which auto-dialed the Oxford Barracks. From the top drawer of his desk he took four silver dollars.
"Hello, Alan," Henry said. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news about your double murder."
"Oh, so all at once it's my double murder," Alan said. He closed his fist around the four cartwheels, squeezed, and opened his hand again. Now there were three. He leaned back in his chair and cocked his feet up on his desk. "It really must be bad news."
"You don't sound surprised."
"Nope." He squeezed his fist shut again and used his pinky finger to "force" the lowest silver dollar in the stack. This was an operation of some delicacy... but Alan was more than equal to the challenge. The silver dollar slipped from his fist and tumbled down his sleeve. There was a quiet chink! sound as it struck the first one, a sound that would be covered by the magician's patter in an actual performance. Alan opened his hand again, and now there were only two cartwheels.
"Maybe you wouldn't mind telling me why not," Henry said.
He sounded slightly testy.
"Well, I've spent most of the last two days thinking about it," Alan said. Even this was an understatement. From the moment on Sunday afternoon when he had first seen that Nettle Cobb was one of the two women lying dead at the foot of the stop-sign, he had thought of little else. He even dreamed about it, and the feeling that all the numbers added up short had become a nagging certainty.
This made Henry's call not an annoyance but a relief, and saved Alan the trouble of calling him.
He squeezed the two silver dollars in his hand.
Chink.
Opened his hand. Now there was one.
"What bothers you?" Henry asked.
"Everything," Alan said flatly. "Starting with the fact that it happened at all. I suppose the thing that itches the worst is the way the time-table of the crime works... or doesn't work. I keep trying to see Nettle Cobb finding her dog dead and then sitting down to write all those notes. And do you know what? I keep not being able to do it. And every time I can't do it, I wonder how much of this stupid goddam business I'm not seeing."
Alan squeezed his fist viciously shut, opened it, and then there were none.
"Uh-huh. So maybe my bad news is your good news. Someone else was involved, Alan. We don't know who killed the Cobb woman's dog, but we can be almost positive that it wasn't Wilma Jersyck. "Alan's feet came off the desk in a hurry. The cartwheels slid out of his sleeve and hit the top of his desk in a little silver runnel.
One of them came down on edge and rolled for the side of the desk.
Alan's hand flicked out, spooky-quick, and snatched it back before it could get away. "I think you better tell me what you got, Henry."
"Uh-huh. Let's start with the dog. The body was turned over to John Palm, a D.V.M. in South Portland. He is to animals what Henry
Ryan is to people. He says that because the corkscrew penetrated the dog's heart and it died almost instantly, he can give us a fairly restricted time of death."
"That's a nice change," Alan said. He was thinking of the Agatha Christie novels which Annie had read by the dozen. In those, it seemed there was always some doddering village doctor who was more than willing to set the time of death as between 4:30 p.m. and quarter past five. After almost twenty years as a law enforcement officer, Alan knew a more realistic response to the time-of-death question was "Sometime last week. Maybe."
"It is, isn't it? Anyway, this Dr. Palm says the dog died between ten o'clock and noon. Peter jerzyck says that when he came into the master bedroom to get ready for church-at a little past tenhis wife was in the shower."
"Yes, we knew it was tight," Alan said. He was a little disappointed. "But this guy Palm must allow for a margin of error, unless he's God. Fifteen minutes is all it takes to make Wilma look good for it."