Mourn the Hangman Read Online Free PDF Page B

with that creep.
    As Blake reached the walk, the front porch light was snapped off behind him. The rain had stopped. The wind was rising. The houses along the street were dark and silent. He began to walk up and down to keep warm. His hands began to shake from cold. He rammed them into his pockets and walked faster up and down before the dark old house. He began to shake, first in his chest, along his arms and then in his legs. The taxi came. Blake was trembling all over. His teeth were chattering. It took him two minutes to make the driver understand he wanted to be taken to the bus station.

4
    BLAKE CROWDED into the Gulf City bus. He found a seat halfway back and huddled in it against the window. The shaking had subsided now and his teeth no longer chattered, but he was still cold. He wondered if he would ever be warm again.
    A stout man punched into the seat beside Blake. He smiled widely, showing yellowed false teeth. “Hello, mister,” he said to Blake. “My name’s Frazer. Salesman with Wall Papers. Wall Papers. Yes sir, lot of people think we sell wallpapers. But Mr. Wall owns the firm. We’re one of the biggest in the bay area. Though — ” his voice dropped confidentially, “don’t know how long we will be, the paper situation the way it is. Why it’s just about impossible to get paper, the world conditions being what they are. But it’s a mighty interesting business. You ever stop to think of all the different kinds of paper there are, mister?”
    “No,” Blake said. “No. I never did.”
    The stout man laughed. “Well, mighty few people ever do. Very few stop to think what paper means to us. Give ’em a little toilet tissue and the morning news and they’re content-”
    Blake closed his ears against the sound of the stout man’s loud voice. He had to think. Think. He wondered how in hell he could think with that man sounding off at his side. He stared out of the window at the lights of the town moving past him.
    With the salesman chattering in his ear, Blake thought about Manley Reeder. Manley admitted he had been in Gulf City. He had been hard hit when Blake told him that Stella was dead. But Manley had said he hoped Blake would never find the man who killed Stella. That could be his expressed desire for ceaseless vengeance against Blake. Or it could be that Manley Reeder knew a lot more than he would ever tell willingly. One thing was sure, Reeder hated his guts. Blake shuddered. And there was one more thing. Manley Reeder was ill. A sick man full of hate and bitterness, living alone in that dark house pervaded with the funereal scent of honeysuckle.
    I’ll find out about him, Blake vowed, I’ll know everything Manley Reeder did in Gulf City today. Then he shook his head. He was being a private snitch now. Stella had called him that and she had hated it and all it stood for. Just this one last time, Stella, Blake whispered soundlessly.
    The stout man was still talking when the bus pulled into the Gulf City terminal. He shook hands with Blake enthusiastically and then clambered forward, brushing people aside as he went along the aisle.
    Blake came off the bus behind a pudgy woman carrying a sleeping baby in her arms. The bus driver was talking to a flashy little twist He didn’t even turn to look at the woman and her baby. Blake caught her as she stumbled. She turned and smiled wearily at him. Blake nodded to her and looked up at the terminal clock. It was then twenty-seven minutes past midnight.
    As his gaze lowered, he saw that an outgoing bus was loading at the next ramp. He saw the harness cop first. He was standing with his hands on his hips watching each passenger go through the exit to the bus. Blake felt the tremors of premonition flicker across his belly like startled flies. The plainclothes detective sergeant was lounging against the counter in an attitude of disinterest. But Blake saw that he was watching even more alertly than the cop.
    It could be anything, Blake told himself.