Philip gave a start, too. Recovering himself, he said, "Then _you're_
Judith Darrow. I'm ... I'm afraid I'm a little late."
The girl's eyes flashed. The radiant backwash of the headlights revealed
them to be both green and gray. "I specified in my letter that you were
supposed to be here at nine o'clock this morning!" she said. "Maybe
you'll tell me how you're going to appraise property in the dark!"
"I'm sorry," Philip said. "My car broke down on the way, and I had to
wait for it to be fixed. When I tried to call you, the operator told me
that your phone had been disconnected. If you'll direct me to the hotel,
I'll stay there overnight and appraise your property in the morning.
There _is_ a hotel, isn't there?"
"There is--but it's closed. Zarathustra--down!" The dog had raised up on
its hind legs and placed its forepaws on the door in an unsuccessful
attempt to peer in the window. At the girl's command, it sank obediently
down on its haunches. "Except for Zarathustra and myself," she went on,
"the village is empty. Everyone else has already moved out, and we'd
have moved out, too, if I hadn't been entrusted with arranging for the
sale of the business places and the houses. It makes for a rather
awkward situation."
She had leaned forward, and the light from the dash lay palely upon her
face, softening its austerity. "I don't get this at all," Philip said.
"From your letter I assumed you had two or three places you wanted me to
sell, but not a whole town. There must have been at least a thousand
people living here, and a thousand people just don't pack up and move
out all at once." When she volunteered no explanation, he added, "Where
did they move to?"
"To Pfleugersville. I know you've never heard of it, so save the
observation." Then, "Do you have any identification?" she asked.
He gave her his driver's license, his business card and the letter she
had written him. After glancing at them, she handed them back. She
appeared to be undecided about something. "Why don't you let me stay at
the hotel?" he suggested. "You must have the key if it's one of the
places I'm supposed to appraise."
She shook her head. "I have the key, but there's not a stick of
furniture in the place. We had a village auction last week and got rid
of everything that we didn't plan on taking with us." She sighed. "Well,
there's nothing for it, I guess. The nearest motel is thirty miles away,
so I'll have to put you up at my house. I have a few articles of
furniture left--wedding gifts, mostly, that I was too sentimental to
part with." She got into the car. "Come on, Zarathustra."
Zarathustra clambered in, leaped across her lap and sat down between
them. Philip pulled away from the curb. "That's an odd name for a dog,"
he said.
"I know. I guess the reason I gave it to him is because he puts me in
mind of a little old man sometimes."
"But the original Zarathustra isn't noted for his longevity."
"Perhaps another association was at work then. Turn right at the next
corner."
A lonely light burned in one of number 23 Locust Street's three front
windows. Its source, however, was not an incandescent bulb, but the
mantle of a gasoline lantern. "The village power-supply was shut off
yesterday," Judith Darrow explained, pumping the lantern into renewed
brightness. She glanced at him sideways. "Did you have dinner?"
"As a matter of fact--no. But please don't--"
"Bother? I couldn't if I wanted to. My larder is on its last legs. But
sit down, and I'll make you some sandwiches. I'll make a pot of coffee
too--the gas hasn't been turned off yet."
* * * * *
The living room had precisely three articles of furniture to its
name--two armchairs and a coffee table. After Judith left him, Philip
set his brief case on the floor and sat down in one of the chairs. He
wondered idly how she expected to make the trip to Pfleugersville. He
had seen no car in the driveway, and there was no garage on the property
in which one could be concealed. Moreover, it was highly unlikely that
buses serviced the village any more. Valleyview had been bypassed quite
some time ago by one of the new super-duper highways. He shrugged.
Getting to Pfleugersville was her problem, not his.
He returned his attention to the living room. It was a large room. The
house was large, too--large and Victorianesque. Judith, apparently, had
opened the back door, for a breeze was wafting through the downstairs
rooms--a breeze laden with the scent of flowers and the dew-damp breath
of growing grass. He frowned. The month was October, not June, and since
when did flowers bloom and grass grow in October? He concluded that the
scent must be artificial.
Zarathustra was regarding him with large golden eyes from the middle of
the living-room floor. The animal did somehow bring to mind a little old
man, although he could not have been more than two or three years old.
"You're not very good company," Philip said.
"Ruf," said Zarathustra, and turning, trotted through an archway into a
large room that, judging from the empty shelves lining its walls, had
once been a library, and thence through another archway into another
room--the dining room, undoubtedly--and out of sight.
Philip leaned back wearily in the armchair he had chosen. He was beat.
Take six days a week, ten hours a day, and multiply by fifty-two and you
get three hundred and twelve. Three hundred and twelve days a year,
hunting down clients, talking, walking, driving, expounding; trying in
his early thirties to build the foundation he should have begun building
in his early twenties--the foundation for the family he had suddenly
realized he wanted and someday hoped to have. Sometimes he wished that
ambition had missed him altogether instead of waiting for so long to
strike. Sometimes he wished he could have gone right on being what he
once had been. After all, there was nothing wrong in living in cheap
hotels and even cheaper rooming houses; there was nothing wrong in being
a lackadaisical door-to-door salesman with run-down heels.
Nothing wrong, that is, except the aching want that came over you
sometimes, and the loneliness of long and empty evenings.
Zarathustra had re-entered the room and was sitting in the middle of the
floor again. He had not returned empty-handed--or rather,
empty-mouthed--although the object he had brought with him was not the
sort of object dogs generally pick up. It was a rose--
A green rose.
* * * * *
Disbelievingly, Philip leaned forward and took it from the animal's
mouth. Before he had a chance to examine it, however, footsteps sounded
in the next room, and prompted by he knew not what, he thrust the rose
into his suitcoat pocket. An instant later, Judith Darrow came through
the archway bearing a large tray. After setting it down on the coffee
table, she poured two cups of coffee from a little silver pot and
indicated a plate of sandwiches. "Please help yourself," she said.
She sat down in the other chair and sipped her coffee. He had one of the
sandwiches, found that he didn't want any more. Somehow, her proximity,
coupled with her silence, made him feel uncomfortable. "Has your husband
already left for Pfleugersville?" he asked politely.
Her gray-green eyes grew cold. "Yes, he left quite some time ago," she
said. "A year ago, as a matter of fact. But for parts unknown, not
Pfleugersville. Pfleugersville wasn't accessible then, anyway. He had a
brunette on one arm, a redhead on the other, and a pint of Cutty Sark in
his hip pocket."