"Sorry? Why should you be? Some men are born to settle down and raise
children and others are born to drink and philander. It's as simple as
that."
"Is it?" something made Philip ask. "Into which category would you say I
fall?"
"You're in a class by yourself." Tiny silver flecks had come into her
eyes, and he realized to his astonishment that they were flecks of
malevolence. "You've never married, but playing the field hasn't made
you one hundred per cent cynical. You're still convinced that somewhere
there is a woman worthy of your devotion. And you're quite right--the
world is full of them."
His face tingled as though she had slapped it, and in a sense, she had.
He restrained his anger with difficulty. "I didn't know that my celibacy
was that noticeable," he said.
"It isn't. I took the liberty of having a private investigator check
into your background. It proved to be unsavory in some respects, as I
implied before, but unlike the backgrounds of the other real-estate
agents I had checked, it contained not the slightest hint of dishonesty.
The nature of my business is such that I need someone of maximum
integrity to contract it with. I had to go far and wide to find you."
"You're being unfair," Philip said, mollified despite himself. "Most
real-estate agents are honest. As a matter of fact, there's one in the
same office building with me that I'd trust with the family jewels--if I
had any family jewels."
"Good," Judith Darrow said. "I gambled on you knowing someone like
that."
He waited for her to elaborate, and when she did not he finished his
coffee and stood up. "If you don't mind, I'll turn in," he said. "I've
had a pretty hard day."
"I'll show you your room."
She got two candles, lit them, and after placing them in gilt
candlesticks, handed one of the candlesticks to him. The room was on the
third floor in under the eaves--as faraway from hers, probably, as the
size of the house permitted. Philip did not mind. He liked to sleep in
rooms under eaves. There was an enchantment about the rain on the roof
that people who slept in less celestial bowers never got to know. After
Judith left, he threw open the single window and undressed and climbed
into bed. Remembering the rose, he got it out of his coat pocket and
examined it by candlelight. It was green all right--even greener than he
had at first thought. Its scent was reminiscent of the summer breeze
that was blowing through the downstairs rooms, though not at all in
keeping with the chill October air that was coming through his bedroom
window. He laid it on the table beside the bed and blew out the candle.
He would go looking for the bush tomorrow.
* * * * *
Philip was an early riser, and dawn had not yet departed when, fully
dressed, he left the room with the rose in his coat pocket and quietly
descended the stairs. Entering the living room, he found Zarathustra
curled up in one of the armchairs, and for a moment he had the eerie
impression that the animal had extended one of his shaggy ears and was
scratching his back with it. When Philip did a doubletake, however, the
ear was back to normal size and reposing on its owner's tawny cheek.
Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he said, "Come on, Zarathustra, we're
going for a walk."
He headed for the back door, Zarathustra at his heels. A double door
leading off the dining room barred his way and proved to be locked.
Frowning, he returned to the living room. "All right," he said to
Zarathustra, "we'll go out the front way then."
[Illustration]
He walked around the side of the house, his canine companion trotting
beside him. The side yard turned out to be disappointing. It contained
no roses--green ones, or any other kind. About all it did contain that
was worthy of notice was a dog house--an ancient affair that was much
too large for Zarathustra and which probably dated from the days when
Judith had owned a larger dog. The yard itself was a mess: the grass
hadn't been cut all summer, the shrubbery was ragged, and dead leaves
lay everywhere. A similar state of affairs existed next door, and
glancing across lots, he saw that the same desuetude prevailed
throughout the entire neighborhood. Obviously the good citizens of
Valleyview had lost interest in their real estate long before they had
moved out.
At length his explorations led him to the back door. If there were green
roses anywhere, the trellis that adorned the small back porch was the
logical place for them to be. He found nothing but bedraggled Virginia
creeper and more dead leaves.
He tried the back door, and finding it locked, circled the rest of the
way around the house. Judith was waiting for him on the front porch.
"How nice of you to walk Zarathustra," she said icily. "I do hope you
found the yard in order."
[Illustration]
The yellow dress she was wearing did not match the tone of her voice,
and the frilly blue apron tied round her waist belied the frostiness of
her gray-green eyes. Nevertheless, her rancor was real. "Sorry," he
said. "I didn't know your back yard was out of bounds." Then, "If you'll
give me a list of the places you want evaluated, I'll get started right
away."
"I'll take you around again personally--after we have breakfast."
Again he was consigned to the living room while she performed the
necessary culinary operations, and again she served him by tray. Clearly
she did not want him in the kitchen, or anywhere near it. He was not
much of a one for mysteries, but this one was intriguing him more and
more by the minute.
Breakfast over, she told him to wait on the front porch while she did
the dishes, and instructed Zarathustra to keep him company. She had two
voices: the one she used in addressing Zarathustra contained overtones
of summer, and the one she used in addressing Philip contained
overtones of fall. "Some day," Philip told the little dog, "that chip
she carries on her shoulder is going to fall off of its own accord, and
by then it will be too late--the way it was too late for me when I found
out that the person I'd been running away from all my life was myself in
wolf's clothing."
"Ruf," said Zarathustra, looking up at him with benign golden eyes.
"Ruf-ruf!"
* * * * *
Presently Judith re-appeared, sans apron, and the three of them set
forth into the golden October day. It was Philip's first experience in
evaluating an entire village, but he had a knack for estimating the
worth of property, and by the time noon came around, he had the job half
done. "If you people had made even half an effort to keep your places
up," he told Judith over cold-cut sandwiches and coffee in her living
room, "we could have asked for a third again as much. Why in the world
did you let everything go to pot just because you were moving some place
else?"
She shrugged. "It's hard to get anyone to do housework these days--not
to mention gardening. Besides, in addition to the servant problem,
there's another consideration--human nature. When you've lived in a
shack all your life and you suddenly acquire a palace, you cease caring
very much what the shack looks like."
"Shack!" Philip was indignant. "Why, this house is lovely! Practically
every house you've shown me is lovely. Old, yes--but oldness is an
essential part of the loveliness of houses. If Pfleugersville is on the
order of most housing developments I've seen, you and your neighbors are
going to be good and sorry one of these fine days!"
"But Pfleugersville isn't on the order of most housing developments
you've seen. In fact, it's not a housing development at all. But let's
not go into that. Anyway, we're concerned with Valleyview, not
Pfleugersville."
"Very well," Philip said. "This afternoon should wind things up so far
as the appraising goes."
* * * * *
That evening, after a coffee-less supper--both the gas and the water had
been turned off that afternoon--he totaled up his figures. They made
quite a respectable sum. He looked across the coffee table, which he had
commandeered as a desk, to where Judith, with the dubious help of
Zarathustra, was sorting out a pile of manila envelopes which she had
placed in the middle of the living-room floor. "I'll do my best to sell
everything," he said, "but it's going to be difficult going till we get
a few families living here. People are reluctant about moving into empty
neighborhoods, and businessmen aren't keen about opening up business
places before the customers are available. But I think it'll work out
all right. There's a plaza not far from here that will provide a place
to shop until the local markets are functioning, and Valleyview is part
of a centralized school district." He slipped the paper he had been
figuring on into his brief case, closed the case and stood up. "I'll
keep in touch with you."
Judith shook her head. "You'll do nothing of the sort. As soon as you
leave, I'm moving to Pfleugersville. My business here is finished."
"I'll keep in touch with you there then. All you have to do is give me
your address and phone number."
She shook her head again. "I could give you both, but neither would do
you any good. But that's beside the point. Valleyview is your
responsibility now--not mine."
Philip sat back down again. "You can start explaining any time," he
said.
"It's very simple. The property owners of Valleyview signed all of their
houses and places of business over to me. I, in turn, have signed all of
them over to you--with the qualification, of course, that after selling
them you will be entitled to no more than your usual commission." She
withdrew a paper from one of the manila envelopes. "After selling them,"
she went on, "you are to divide the proceeds equally among the four
charities specified in this contract." She handed him the paper. "Do you
understand now why I tried so hard to find a trustworthy agent?"
Philip was staring at the paper, unable, in his astonishment, to read
the words it contained. "Suppose," he said presently, "that
circumstances should make it impossible for me to carry out my end of
the agreement?"
"In case of illness, you will already have taken the necessary steps to
transfer the property to another agent who, in your opinion, is as
completely honest as you are, and in case of death, you will already
have taken the necessary steps to bequeath the property to the same
agent; and he, in both cases, will already have agreed to the terms laid
down in the contract you're holding in your hands. Why don't you read
it?"
* * * * *
Now that his astonishment had abated somewhat, Philip found that he
could do so. "But this still doesn't make sense," he said a short while
later. "Obviously you and the rest of the owners have purchased new
houses. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask how you're going to pay
for them when you're virtually giving your old houses away?"
"I'm afraid it would be, Mr. Myles." She withdrew another paper from the
envelope and handed it to him. "This is the other copy. If you'll kindly
affix your signature to both, we can bring our business to a close. As
you'll notice, I've already signed."
"But if you're going to be incommunicado," Philip pointed out, anger
building up in him despite all he could do to stop it, "what good will
your copy do you?"
Judith's countenance took on a glacial quality. So did her voice. "My
copy will go into the hands of a trusted attorney, sealed in an envelope
which I have already instructed him not to open till five years from
this date. If, at the time it is opened, you have violated the terms of
our agreement, he will institute legal proceedings at once. Fortunately,
although the Valleyview post office is closed, a mail truck passes
through every weekday evening at eight. It's not that I don't trust you,
Mr. Myles--but you are a man, you know."
Philip was tempted to tear up the two copies then and there, and toss
the pieces into the air. But he didn't, for the very good reason that he
couldn't afford to. Instead, he bore down viciously on his pen and
brought his name to life twice in large and angry letters. He handed
Judith one copy, slipped the other into his breast pocket and got to his
feet. "That," he said, "brings our official business to a close. Now I'd
like to add an unofficial word of advice. It seems to me that you're
exacting an exorbitant price from the world for your husband's having
sold you out for a brunette and a redhead and a pint of Scotch. I've
been sold out lots of times for less than that, but I found out long ago
that the world doesn't pay its bills even when you ask a fair price for
the damages done to you. I suggest that you write the matter off as a
bad debt and forget about it; then maybe you'll become a human being
again."
She had risen to her feet and was standing stiffly before him. She put
him in mind of an exquisite and fragile statue, and for a moment he had
the feeling that if he were to reach out and touch her, she would
shatter into a million pieces. She did not move for some time, nor did
he; then she bent down, picked up three of the manila envelopes,
straightened, and handed them to him. "Two of these contain the deeds,
maps and other records you will need," she said in a dead voice. "The
third contains the keys to the houses and business places. Each key is
tagged with the correct address. Good-by, Mr. Myles."
"Good-by," Philip said.
He looked around the room intending to say good-by to Zarathustra, but
Zarathustra was nowhere to be seen. Finally he went into the hall,
opened the front door and stepped out into the night. A full moon was
rising in the east. He walked down the moonlit walk, climbed into his
car and threw his brief case and the manila envelopes into the back
seat. Soon, Valleyview was far behind him.
But not as far as it should have been. He couldn't get the green rose
out of his mind. He couldn't get Judith Darrow out of his mind either.
Nor could he exorcise the summer breeze that kept wafting through the
crevices in his common sense.
A green rose and a grass widow and a breeze with a green breath. A whole
town taking off for greener pastures....
He reached into his coat pocket and touched the rose. It was no more
than a stem and a handful of petals now, but its reality could not be
denied. But roses do not bloom in autumn, and green roses do not bloom
at all--
"Ruf!"
He had turned into the new highway some time ago, and was driving along
it at a brisk sixty-five. Now, disbelievingly, he slowed, and pulled
over onto the shoulder. Sure enough, he had a stowaway in the back
seat--a tawny-haired stowaway with golden eyes, over-sized ears, and a
restless, white-tipped tail. "Zarathustra!" he gasped. "How in the
dickens did you get in there?"
"Ruf," Zarathustra replied.
Philip groaned. Now he would have to go all the way back to Valleyview.
Now he would have to see Judith Darrow again. Now he would have to--He
paused in midthought, astonished at the abrupt acceleration of his
heartbeat. "Well I'll be damned!" he said, and without further preamble
transferred Zarathustra to the front seat, U-turned, and started back.
* * * * *
The gasoline lantern had been moved out of the living-room window, but a
light still showed beyond the panes. He pulled over to the curb and
turned off the ignition. He gave one of Zarathustra's over-sized ears a
playful tug, absently noting a series of small nodules along its lower
extremity. "Come on, Zarathustra," he said. "I may as well deliver you
personally while I'm at it."
After locking the car, he started up the walk, Zarathustra at his heels.
He knocked on the front door. Presently he knocked again. The door
creaked, swung partially open. He frowned. Had she forgotten to latch
it? he wondered. Or had she deliberately left it unlatched so that
Zarathustra could get in? Zarathustra himself lent plausibility to the
latter conjecture by rising up on his hind legs and pushing the door the
rest of the way open with his forepaws, after which he trotted into the
hall and disappeared.