How do you know that?
But the 810-40.04 ignored the second question. On the top of the trunk, two squares of the burnished metal began to glow softly, a sweet yellow. Without understanding how he knew to do this, Victor Salsbury reached out and placed one palm flat one each of the glowing spots. Instantly, the next step of the operation was flashed into his brain and printed there for eternity. When the squares ceased to shine, he rose, went to the farthest trunk just as it popped open at a command from the computer. He took out a suit of conventional clothes, dressed, and left the cave. He had orders to follow.
CHAPTER 3
He spent most of that morning up the street from the Oak Grove Greyhound Station-a ponderous aluminum and glass and concrete structure whose architecture suggested modern gothic-waiting for the bus from Harris-burg so that, when he walked into Wilmar Realty to proceed with the plan, he could say it was by this means he had arrived. He was kept company by a drunk, a small boy with fire red hair, and three persistent pigeons who were absolutely positive he must be concealing some delightful morsel in his suit pockets. He ignored them all, answered the boy or the drunk with clipped, terse replies when silence could no longer be excused. They soon grew wary of him, his isolation, his even, hard eyes. Even the pigeons seemed to start avoiding him.
When the bus arrived, dispersed its passengers, and circled the block, heading back for Harrisburg, he got up, moving like a cat, and walked down the street toward the Wilmar Realty Agency.
He stepped through the plate glass door which shut behind, and relished the cool breath of air-conditioning. Outside, the heat had been nearly intolerable. The place was one huge room almost large enough to hold go-cart races in. It had been partitioned along the rear into five office cubicles, each without a ceiling or door so that one got the ludicrous impression of looking into the toilet stalls in a low class men's gymnasium. The greatest part of the room was an unpartitioned lounge with ashtrays and display boards of Wilmar properties. A receptionist was set before the five cubicles, servicing each. The moment he stepped in, she smiled a plastic smile. Can I help you?
I'd like to inquire about a house, he said.
Renting or buying?
It depends on what I like. But that was a lie, of course. He knew exactly which house. He had, after all, killed to obtain it.
Why don't you look around? she said. Someone will be with you in a moment. Glittering plastic teeth shone so brightly that they almost made him squint.
He scanned several display boards, found the Jacobi house on the third. He had never seen it from the front (all actions on that night two weeks ago had been initiated from the rear), but he knew it immediately. His mind kept wanting to return to Harold Jacobi, the man he had killed. He had learned the name from the hypnotic briefing with the computer. But the iron programmed part of him forced down any such foolishness.
Is that something like what you had in mind? a gentle voice next to his right shoulder asked.
He turned, smiled automatically, and said, Yes.
The trapped portion of his mind, the humane part that kept trying to assert itself, reacted much more violently. That part had been expecting a jolly, hard-sell jackass in loud clothes and squeaking shoes and was presented instead with this stunning, lithe, five-foot-five-inch blonde with a dark tan and a long fall of coarse, bright hair. She made the lovely receptionist look like the boy on the corner. Her face was the sort of creamy perfection that made Hollywood starlets scream and break mirrors in frustration. She had stolen her eyes from a large cat. The figure under the face came from somewhere in mythology, though it was not quite obvious whether it was Diana, Venus, or Helen.
She smiled, though it was a slightly unsure smile. Plainly, she expected a greater reaction from men than the iron Victor Salsbury was giving her. Were you renting or buying? she asked, flashing even, white teeth.
That depends on the property, Miss-
Oh, sorry. Lynda Harvey. Just Lynda, please. But even as she said it, she wondered whether he would unbend enough to call her by her first name. He gave her the chills, so formal, cold, like a hollow man. She had watched the pulse in his throat when he had turned to look at her-a standard way of judging a man's reaction to her-and had seen no change. That was highly unusual!
Victor Salsbury, he replied.
Very well, if he was going to be so businesslike The Jacobi estate calls for a sale, no renting provision. Even the factual statements sounded mellow, full, sensuous coming from her honeyed lips. He did not seem to notice. Strange, he did not look queer.
What's the asking price?
Forty-two thousand.
He did not wince at the price tag as she had expected. Instead, he nodded sharply and said: Fine. Let's take a look at it. He had considered taking it without being given a tour. But considering the odd circumstances around Harold Jacobi's death, he thought that might be unwise. The iron Victor was irritated with the facade he had to erect, but knew it was necessary to arouse as few suspicions as possible.
She arranged for one of the other salesmen to take a call she was expecting, left a memo with the receptionist, grabbed a big straw purse from the desk in her cubbyhole office, and came briskly across the floor to where he waited by the front door. Your car or mine? she asked.
I came by bus.
Mine's right behind the place. Come on. She said it in the tone of a woman used to leading men around a bit. Not domineering, but efficient and brisk.
Her machine was a copper colored Porsche with a white canvas top. Together, they put the top down. Two blocks from the Wilmar Realty Agency, he relaxed, uncramping his long legs as best he could. She was a good driver; she accelerated smoothly, cornered sharply on the edge between too slow and too fast. Her maneuvers were swift and clean, and she did not let other drivers bother her. Soon, they were off on a pleasant country lane fringed on both sides by trees so that, for a great deal of the drive, they were swathed in cooling shadows. He did not notice the scenery. He stared ahead, only anxious to get the play-acting done.
It's a lovely old place, she said.
Yes. So the picture would indicate.
She looked over at him, then back to the road. He was the first man in a long time who had unsettled her. There was something creepy about him, yet something attractive she could not define.
You haven't asked the standard question, she said.
What's that?
What a woman is doing as a real estate agent.
I suppose a woman could do as well as a man, iron Victor said, still staring ahead.
She had been expecting a lead-in to conversation. With this cool, almost unconscious rebuttal, she bit her lip, cursed him silently, and drove on.
Several minutes later, she pulled the Porsche off the lane, brought it rapidly up a long, curved drive toward the front of the Jacobi house. She stopped before the front steps that led to a glassed-in front porch.
Do you know the history of the house? she asked. To some people, it might make a difference about buying or not buying. Despite the fact that he angered her, she could not be less than honest with him.
The sunlight broke through the windscreen and caught her yellow hair, sparkled in it, made her green eyes grow larger. For a moment, he was unsettled. The hidden, confused part of him swam upward, shoved out the iron Victor. He said, I heard someone was killed here. Could you tell me about it?
They left the car, walked into the porch, to the front door. It wasn't a big surprise to the town, she said as she unlocked the door and pushed it inward.