When he saw where he was and that he was alone, he sank back, exhausted, and listened to the phone. After thirty rings, he had no choice but to pick it up.
“Yes.”
“I was about to come check on you,” Mrs. Fielding said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,”
“It took you so long to answer.”
“I was asleep.”
She hesitated, as if framing what she was about to say. “I’m having Swiss steak, mushrooms, baked corn, and mashed potatoes for supper. Would you like to come down? There’s more than I can use.”
“I don’t think-”
“A strapping boy like you needs his regular meals.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
She was silent. Then she said, “All right. But I wish you’d waited, ’cause I got all this food.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m stuffed,” he said.
“Tomorrow night, maybe.”
“Maybe,” he said. He rang off before she could suggest a late-night snack together.
The ice melted in his glass, diluting what whiskey he had not drunk. He emptied the watered booze into the bathroom sink, got new ice and a new shot of liquor. It tasted as sour as a bite of lemon rind. He drank it anyway. The cupboard and refrigerator contained nothing else but a bag of Winesap apples.
He turned on the small black-and-white television again and slowly cycled through all the local channels. Nothing but news, news, news, and a cartoon program. He watched the cartoons.
None was amusing.
After the cartoons, he watched an old movie.
Except for the telephone call he’d been told to expect at six o’clock, he had the whole evening ahead of him.
At six o’clock on the nose, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Chase,” the killer said. His voice was still rough.
Chase sat on the bed.
“How are you tonight?” the killer asked.
“Okay. ”
“You know what I’ve been up to all day?”
“Research.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me what you found,” Chase said, as if it would be news to him even though he was the subject. And maybe it would be.
“First, you were born here a little over twenty-four years ago on June eleventh, 1947, in Mercy Hospital. Your parents died in an auto accident a couple of years ago. You went to school at State and graduated in a three-year accelerated program, having majored in business administration. You did well in all subjects except a few required courses, chiefly Basic Physical Sciences, Biology One and Two, Chemistry One, and Basic Composition.” The killer whispered on for two or three minutes, reciting biographical facts that Chase had thought private. Courthouse records, college files, newspaper morgues, and half a dozen other sources had provided the killer with far more information about Chase’s life than could have been gleaned merely from the recent articles in the Press-Dispatch.
“I think I’ve been on the line too long,” the killer said. “It’s time I went to another booth. Is your phone tapped, Chase?”
“No.”
“Just the same, I’ll hang up now and call you back in a few minutes.” The line went dead.
Five minutes later the killer called again.
“What I gave you before was just so much dry grass, Chase. But let me add a few more things and do some speculating. Let’s see if I can add a match to it.”
“Whatever you have to do.”
“For one thing,” the man said, “you inherited a lot of money, but you haven’t spent much of it.”
“Not a lot.”
“Forty thousand after taxes, but you live frugally.”
“How would you know that?”
“I drove by your house today and discovered that you live in a furnished apartment on the third floor. When I saw you coming home, it was apparent that you don’t spend much on clothes. Until that pretty new Mustang, you didn’t have a car. It follows, then, that you must have a great deal of your inheritance left, what with the monthly disability pension from the government to pay most or all of your bills.”
“I want you to stop checking on me.”
The man laughed. “Can’t stop. Remember the necessity to evaluate your moral content before passing judgment, Mr. Chase.”
Chase hung up this time. Having taken the initiative cheered him a little. When the phone began to ring again, he summoned the will not to answer it. After thirty rings, it stopped.