Benchley, Peter Read Online Free PDF

flowers. The bushes were alive with the croaking of frogs.
    Sanders unlocked the door to the cottage and said, “Let’s have a brandy on the porch.”
    “We’ll be eaten alive.”
    “I don’t think so.” He pointed to a yellow light above the door. “These things are supposed to keep the bugs away.”
    He poured brandy into the two bathroom glasses and carried them out to the porch. Gail was sitting in one of the two rattan chairs that flanked a small table.
    “It’s nice,” she said, sniffing the air. “There are a thousand different smells.”
    For several minutes, they sat and gazed at the sky and listened to the rustle of the breeze in the trees.
    “Are you ready for another thrilling fact from the files of the
    Geographic?”
    Sanders said.
    “Sure.”
    “Back in the seventeenth century, this place was known as the Isle of Devils.”
    “Why?”
    “How would I know? My contract only calls for me to give you the “whats.” Someone else is paid to find out the “whys.””
    Gail said, “I’m going to yawn now.”
    “Feel free.”
    “It will be the most sensual and suggestive yawn you have ever heard. It will promise wild, unimagined pleasures that will make me forget that you are a suicidal maniac. In short, it will be a real turn-on.”
    “Do it,” said Sanders. He closed his eyes and listened. He heard her embark on a low, moaning, feline yawn. It stopped-as suddenly as if someone had jammed a cork in her throat. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Swallow your tongue?” He opened his eyes and saw her staring out into the darkness.
    “What?”
    “Someone’s out there.”
    “It’s the wind.”
    “No, it isn’t.”
    Sanders walked to the edge of the patio. The path was empty. He turned back to Gail and said, “Nobody.”
    “Look.” Gail was pointing to something behind him.
    When Sanders looked again, he saw a man stepping out of the bushes onto the path. He walked toward them, stopped a few yards from the porch, and said, “Excuse me.” He was a black man, dressed in a black suit. All Sanders could see were his eyes and a patch of white shirt.
    “How long have you been there?” Sanders said.
    “Sir? I arrived this very moment.”
    “From the bushes?”
    The man smiled. “That is the shortest way.
    The path is very roundabout.” His accent was crisp, establishment British.
    “What can we do for you?”
    “I would like a word with you, if I may.”
    “Okay. But come up into the light.”
    The man, who looked about fifty, stepped onto the porch. His blue-black skin was wrinkled, and there were flecks of gray in his black hair. “My name is Tupper. Basil Tupper. I am the manager of a jewelry store in Hamilton. Drake’s. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. No matter. My hobby is antique glass.”
    Sanders looked at Gail. “Lot of glass freaks in Bermuda.”
    Tupper said, “I understand you recently acquired a small item of glass from the wreck of the Goliath.
    I would like very much to see it.”
    “Why?”
    “What’s all the curiosity about?” Gail said, reaching for the purse beside her chair. “It’s just a medicine bottle.”
    “No curiosity, really,” said Tupper, “except to those of us interested in fine glass. A chap named Reinhardt worked with glass in Norfolk in the mid-1940’s. His work is relatively scarce. It’s not worth much in the open market, but in our small circle it’s quite a coup to have a piece of Reinhardt glass.”
    Gail found the ampule and handed it to Tupper. He held it to the light. “A nice piece,” he said.
    “Not outstanding, but a nice piece.”
    “It’s an ampule,” said Sanders. “You see them all over the place.”
    “True, but there is a tiny bubble at one end of the glass. That was Reinhardt’s signature.”
    “What’s in it? “Gail asked.
    “I have no idea. It could be anything. That’s not my concern.”
    Gail smiled. “For someone who doesn’t care what’s inside, you’re studying it awfully