“Why didn’t Jenny and I get the night chills?”
Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’ve no idea what Mark walked into this morning. What did he see that made it necessary for him to be killed?”
They stared at each other, horrified by the idea that the townspeople were unwitting guinea pigs in some bizarre experiment. Both of them wanted to laugh off the entire notion, dismiss it with a joke or two; but neither of them could even smile.
“If any of this is true,” Sam said worriedly, “there’s even more reason to call in the state police right now.”
Paul said, “We’ll find the body first. Then we’ll call the state police. I’m going to find my son before he winds up in an unmarked grave way to hell and gone in the mountains.”
Gradually, Sam’s face became as white as his hair. “Don’t talk about him as if you know he’s dead. You don’t know that he’s dead, dammit!”
Paul took a deep breath. His chest ached. “Sam, I should have believed Rya this morning. She’s no liar. Those bloody dish towels .. . Look, I’ve got to talk about him as if he’s dead. I’ve got to think of him that way. If I convince myself that he’s still alive and then I find his body-it’ll hurt too much. It’ll destroy me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to come in with me.”
“I can’t let you go alone,” Sam said.
“Yes, you can. I’ll be fine.”
“I won’t let you go alone.”
“All right. Let’s get this over with.”
“He’s a good boy,” Sam said quietly. “He’s always been such a good boy. I love him like my own.”
Paul nodded, turned, and went into the dark house.
The telephone company maintained a narrow, two-story brick building on West Main Street, half a block from the square. It was a two-minute walk from Pauline Vicker’s rooming house.
The front office on the first floor-where complaints could be lodged and bills paid-was small and neat. It contained eight gray filing cabinets, a cash register, an electronic calculator, a photostatic copier, a typewriter, a long pine worktable, and two Straight-backed chairs in one corner, a large metal desk with a Sturdy swivel chair, a Sierra Club calendar, several telephones, stacks of company pamphlets, a radio, and the United States flag in a stainless steel stand. There was no dust on the furniture, no dirt on the tile floor, and every pile of typing paper, forms, and envelopes was properly squared off and neatly stacked.
The only person in the office was as businesslike as the room. She was a thin but not unattractive woman in her middle or late forties. Her short-cropped chestnut hair had no more than a dozen strands of gray in it. Her skin was smooth and milky. Although her features were very angular, they were balanced by a generous, sensuous mouth that saved her looks but seemed to have been borrowed from another face. She wore a smart and efficient green pantsuit with a white cotton blouse. Her glasses were on a chain so that when she took them off they hung ready at her breast.
When Salsbury entered the office, she stepped up to the counter, smiled professionally, and said, “Does it still look like rain out there?”
Closing the mullioned-window door, Salsbury said, “Yes. Yes, it does.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I am the lock.” “I am the key.”
He went to the counter.
She toyed with the glasses at her breast. He said, “What’s your name?”
“Joan Markham.”
“Are you a secretary?”
“I’m the assistant manager.”
“How many people are working here?” “Right now?”
“Right now,” he said.
“Six, including me.”
“Name them for me, one by one.”
“Well, there’s Mr. Puichaski.”
“Who’s he?”
“The manager.”
“Where is he now?”
“In his office, The front room upstairs.”
“Who else, Joan?”
“Leona Ives. Mr. Pulchaski’s secretary.”
“Is she upstairs too?”
“Yes.”
“That leaves three.”
“Those are operators.”
“Switchboard operators?”
“Yes. Mary Ultman, Betty Zimmerman, and Louise Pulchaski.”
“Mr. Puichaski’s wife?”
“His daughter,” Joan said.
“Where do the operators work?”
She pointed to a door at the back of the room. “That leads to the downstairs hall. The switchboards are in the next room, at the back of the building.”