Strangers on a Train

Eight

The telephone rang that night at about eleven. His mother answered it, then came in and called him from the living room where he sat with his uncle and his uncle’s wife and his two cousins, Ritchie and Ty.

“It’s long-distance,” his mother said.

Guy nodded. It would be Brillhart, of course, asking for further explanations. Guy had answered his letter that day. “Hello, Guy,” the voice said. “Charley.”

“Charley who?”

“Charley Bruno.”

“Oh!—How are you? Thanks for the book.”

“I dint send it yet but I will,” Bruno said with the drunken cheer Guy remembered from the train. “Coming out to Santa Fe?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

“What about Palm Beach? Can I visit you there in a couple weeks? I’d like to see how it looks.”

“Sorry, that’s all off.”

“Off? Why?”

“Complications. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Account of your wife?”

“N-no.” Guy felt vaguely irritated.

“She wants you to stay with her?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“Miriam wants to come out to Palm Beach?”

Guy was surprised he remembered her name.

“You haven’t got your divorce, huh?”

“Getting it,” Guy said tersely.

“Yes, I’m paying for this call!” Bruno shouted to someone. “Cheeses!” disgustedly. “Listen, Guy, you gave up that job account of her?”

“Not exactly. It doesn’t matter. It’s finished.”

“You have to wait till the child’s born for a divorce?”

Guy said nothing.

“The other guy’s not going to marry her, huh?”

“Oh, yes, he is—”

“Yeah?” Bruno interrupted cynically.

“I can’t talk any longer. We’ve got guests here tonight. I wish you a pleasant trip, Charley.”

“When can we talk? Tomorrow?”

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Bruno sounded lost now, and Guy hoped he was. Then the voice again, with sullen intimacy, “Listen, Guy, if you want anything done, you know, all you have to do is give a sign.”

Guy frowned. A question took form in his mind, and immediately he knew the answer. He remembered Bruno’s idea for a murder.

“What do you want, Guy?”

“Nothing. I’m very content. Understand?” But it was drunken bravado on Bruno’s part, he thought. Why should he react seriously?

“Guy, I mean it,” the voice slurred, drunker than before.

“Good-by, Charley,” Guy said. He waited for Bruno to hang up.

“Doesn’t sound like everything’s fine,” Bruno challenged.

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“Guy!” in a tearful whine.

Guy started to speak, but the line clicked and went dead. He had an impulse to ask the operator to trace the call. Then he thought, drunken bravado. And boredom. It annoyed him that Bruno had his address. Guy ran his hand hard across his hair, and went back into the living room.