James held the Phone Book Open
and sat upon his bed. The phone book read:
Seph, Yaqin 546-445-4493 Sepwin, Russell 546-948-3321 Sepwith, Morris 492-889-0093 Sepwith, Nancy Smith 492-337-3309 Sepwith, Shep 492-349-8893 Seril, M. 492-228-3384 Seril, Theodore 393-818-0989 Seril, Wendy 492-349-2304 Sermon, Bill 492-405-4483 Sermon, Dr. L. N. Xavier 492-817-8717 Sernick, Anthony 492-576-4004 Sernick, Elinore 546-298-3038 Sernick, William 492-889-5807
Sermon, thought James to himself. That's the lead. He closed the phone book, gathered himself a moment, and called the number. It rang once, and was picked up.
— Office of Dr. Xavier Sermon. This is reception.
— Yes, I'd like to make an appointment.
— The Doctor does not take any forms of health insurance, also he insists on seeing patients only during weekday afternoons. We have a spot open tomorrow afternoon, well, let me see, three. How is three? Can you do three?
— Three is fine. The address?
— Forty-nine Octavo Place. That's at the corner of the park. We're on the third floor. What is your name?
— Caleb Morton.
— And. . phone number, in case anything changes.
— I don't have a phone. But I'll be there at that time.
— Well, actually, you should come fifteen minutes early, because the Doctor will want you to fill out a form with your previous history, etc., and a description of the present ailment.
— Then at quarter to, said James. Good-bye.
— Have a good day, Mr. Morton, said the receptionist cheerfully.
James was alone in the room again. It occurred to him that things were happening very slowly. What would Thomas McHale think, were he still alive? What had McHale's plan been, anyway? Presumably to go to the police. McHale knew all the details; he had been a conspirator; he would be believed. What did James know? Nothing. And now he certainly could not go to the police — he would have to explain the suicide of Mayne.
He picked up the newspaper again and read through the front-page article, entitled “Identity of Samedi Unknown.”
It seemed the police, the FBI, the government in general, had little to go on, and were so far unsuccessful in their hunt.
There was a short letter to the editor saying that Samedi was really no threat at all. It was the position of that writer that the newspaper should under no circumstances continue to publish the letters.
That's foolishness, thought James. The letters are clearly news, and as long as they continue to be, the newspaper will print them. He turned to the next page. It was an extensive article on the work of handwriting analysis that had been done on the notes.
A profile of Samedi followed, describing him as: an older man, highly educated, vain, used to having his own way. Certainly wealthy, perhaps born to wealth. Right-handed, or ambidextrous, with an injury to the right wrist. Exceptionally long fingers. A nonsmoker. Most likely no history of criminal involvement.
The phone rang. James picked it up.
— Excuse me, this is Dr. Sermon's office calling to confirm an appointment for tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock.
— Please do not call this number, said James. It's my work, and they're very touchy about such things.
He hung up the phone.
Immediately, he thought, I have not gone to work in two days.
Then he thought, Going to work now would be useless.
At that Moment, the Doorbell Rang
James went down the stairs slowly. Through the curtain he could see some kind of deliveryman standing on the porch. He opened the door.
— Delivery for Sim.
The man held out a small, flat package.
James took the package and signed for it. With a nod, the deliveryman went away, back into the world of large, empty trucks and small, flat packages.
James shut the door and sat down on the hall-bench. He had always wanted to have such a bench. As he grew older, slowly he had procured for himself more and more of the things he had wanted slightly. Finally, it was the bench's turn, and he had procured it and set it down in this hall. Really, he never sat on it. Certainly, this was the most momentous thing that had ever befallen the bench.
James opened the package. Inside there were two smaller packages.
James opened the first. It was a letter that had been folded upon itself many times. He unfolded it.
It was quite short and forcefully clear:
Dear James Sim,
Your inquiries are not desired. Neither are they appreciated. You have once been warned against continuing, yet still you continue. This is one-half of your final warning.
The letter was not signed.
James opened the other small package. Something soft was inside. For a moment, he was afraid it was human skin, but his recoiling was checked by the smell of rubber. He pulled the rubber-thing out and let it hang. It was some kind of mask, some kind of Halloween mask. He held it up. It looked like a human face, but what sort he could not say. A man's, certainly.
He went in front of the hall mirror and tried the mask on.
With horror, he realized it was a rubber mask of his own face. They had sent him a rubber mask of his own face. He tore it off, but could not bring himself to throw it in the garbage.
How had they made it? For how long had he been observed?
There was nothing to do but to bury the thing.
James's Fear of Masks
Over the cradle in which James had lain, it had been the habit of James's father to make peculiar faces. The young child, unbeknownst to himself or his father, had then formed a deep-seated fear of masks that would plague him all the years of his life. His mother, witnessing these displays, would often chide his father roughly, saying, Come away from there, Morris; you'll only make him cry. Which was ridiculous too in its own way, as James Sim had been the most clement of babies, and was never known to cry, even when provoked or tortured, as he often was, by father and brother.
The Hall Mirror
The hall mirror too, in its way, had been guest to a series of uncomfortable events. Previous to its life above the bench in the front hall of James's house, it had been owned by a procuress, being that it was such a fine and beautiful mirror, so nice to look upon. She had required that the various women who came beneath her hand smile gently into the mirror whenever they passed it in that house of assignation. It was thus the receptacle of a great many lovely likenesses and mocking eyes.
James stood then in the hall, holding the note. He became aware suddenly of a feeling in himself — he was being watched. He looked slowly over his left shoulder into the mirror, and through the mirror, through the hall door into the kitchen and the window beyond. Sure enough, there was a face there. He did not give away this sudden knowledge, but pretended to examine his face in the mirror. He turned away then, and took a step down the hall. Whoever it was at the window could now not see him. He ran quickly to the cellar stair and down into the cellar. Across the cellar he ran. Slowly he unbolted the second side door. He could see the coated figure of the snoop through the narrow windows that ran the length of the cellar.