The fat man turned to Fred. “I don’t know about this guy. Somethin’ don’t seem right about him.”
“Don’t be unneighbourly, Stan. He’s just not from around here, that’s all.” Fred looked up at me. “Ain’t that right, Mr — “
“Murphy. Jake Murphy. Yeah, I’m afraid I stick out like a bone spur around here.”
“Got that right.” the words were mumbled from the direction of the checker game. I seemed to have worn out my unwelcome. I decided to leave before these hicks started playing “Duelling Banjos” and making pig sounds.
“Well, I’ll come back later when you’re not so busy.” there was no response. My standard Murphy charm had apparently deserted me. I needed a stiff drink and time to compose myself. Fred’s Barber Shop was nothing like the one Andy Taylor went to.
There was a bar across the street called the Juniper Saloon. I lit a cigarette and crossed the street, being careful not to get hit by one of the four-wheeled relics passing by. I walked in and took a seat at the bar. The place must have gotten more through-traffic than the barber shop. The bartender was the first person in Richfield who didn’t look at me as though my face were covered with festering boils. I ordered bourbon straight up. The bartender confirmed my order appreciatively, as though he expected me to ask for a beer.
I drained the JD and ordered another. I’d tipped the Bartender just enough to leave me alone and yet not so much that he’d feel obligated to make cardboard conversation. I was just finishing a third helping when someone slid onto the bar stool beside me. The young man from the barbershop gave me a nod and waved off the bartender. He’d come in to see me, not to have a drink. With some trepidation, he turned and spoke. “Sorry about what happened back there. Not everyone around here is so narrow.”
I shook the last drops out of my glass. “I was beginning to wonder.”
The young man smiled.
“My wife and son and I moved here not too long ago. I work at the paper mill. It took a while for us to fit in. This isn’t a tourist town, and the locals are always suspicious of anything new.”
“Tell me something. What was that reaction I got when I mentioned Elijah Witt? I felt like I’d mentioned the evil dragon that descends on the town and eats everyone who isn’t bolted into their house.”
The young man shook his head. “He’s a queer one. Mr Witt. He lives outside of town in a huge mansion. Only a few people have ever seen him. You should hear all the rumours flying around about him. Some say he has aliens living there with him. Others swear they’ve seen strange lights in the sky up around his place. Still others say he’s a communist.”
“My God. A commie?”
The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t believe any of the wild stuff. I guess he’s written some books about UFOs that have got everyone spooked.”
“I guess it doesn’t take much around here.”
He shook his head in agreement. “Ignorance breeds fear. But I just wanted to talk to you before you left Richfield thinking that everyone here is unfriendly.”
“I appreciate it. Want a drink?”
“No. My son’s waiting out in the truck. I gotta get home for dinner.”
He got up to leave. I decided to join him. We stepped outside. “By the way, could you point me in the direction of Mr Witt’s place?”
“Sure. Take Main Street down to Elm and take a right — “
“No, I just need the actual direction. I’ve got a speeder.”
He craned his neck to check out my vehicle. After admiring it for a minute, he turned back and pointed. “Due west.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I was still unsure of how I would get in to see Elijah Witt. As I navigated my speeder out of town and over the densely forested terrain, a sprawling mansion came into view, nestled into the side of a pine-covered hill. It had to be the place I was looking for. I landed on a spacious cul-de-sac at the front of the mansion. Half-expecting to be overtaken by a pack of salivating guard dogs, I got out and walked to the door. The only sound in the air was the rustling of the trees and chirping of birds.
I rang the doorbell and waited for several minutes. Just after I’d rung a second time, the door was opened by a decrepit-looking old man, wearing a herringbone jacket and a bow-tie.
“Mr Witt?”
The old man gave me a look as dry as day-old meat loaf. “Hardly.”
He spoke with a clipped English accent and stiff upper lipped manner of a man still bitter about losing the American Revolution. With my mongrel American facial features and homespun Midwestern accent, I probably represented everything this guy hated about the colonies. I resisted the urge to slip into my Southwestern drawl and really irritate him. “Is Mr Witt in? I’ve come a long way to see him.”
The old man made no attempt to be subtle as he looked me over like a suspect in a police line-up. After a long silence, he looked up at me disdainfully. “Whatever it is you’re selling, sir, Mr Witt is not interested. Good day.” he started to close the door, but I’d come too far to give up that easily.
I stuck a foot in the door, causing me old man to look at me as though I’d slapped him lightly across the face with a pair of white calfskin gloves. Maybe some humour would lighten the situation. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a few magazine subscriptions? If I sell three more, I when a free trip to Knotts Berry Farm.”
With unspeakable contempt, the old man looked at me, then at my foot, then back at me. He was apparently in no mood to be cajoled. “That was just a joke.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be impertinent, but it’s very important that I at least get a message to Mr Witt. I’ll be happy to wait outside if you’ll at least take it to him.”
The limey looked down at my foot again, then seemed to decide that I wasn’t going to go away unless he least made a pretence of helpfulness. “Very well, sir. What is your message?”
I rooted through the pockets of my overcoat and found a nearly empty book of matches. Taking a pen from my inner pocket, I jotted down the words merge the four rare cases to see maps, then handed the matchbook to the old man. “This is very important.”
“Of course it is.”
He folded the matchbook and waited for me to remove my foot before closing the door. I turned away from the door and dug for my smokes. There was no guarantee that the old brute would even bother to speak with Witt, but I was planning on camping out at the front door until I got an audience with him. I was just crashing out a Lucky Strike on the flagstone walkway when the door opened behind me. “Mr Witt will see you.”
“Great. Listen, I sure appreciate your help. Love your accent.”
The old man groaned audibly.
I was ushered into a foyer with a ceiling high enough to practise punting in. On the far side of the room, by a fireplace big enough to throw a bookcase in to, was a heavy-set figure sporting a pipe. As I crossed the room, the figure turned toward me, and for the first time I laid eyes upon the intimidating countenance of Elijah Witt. I strode forward, hand extended and face lit up like a No Vacancy sign.
“Mr Witt! Pleasure to see you again!”
The ornately carved pipe protruded from Witt’s full, ruddy face like a pump handle. Dark-brown eyes surveyed me intently from beneath bushy white eyebrows. The eyes didn’t leave me as he took a match from the book I’d given his lackey and set it to the and nest of tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. Witt nursed his Captain Black to a full boil, then wagged out the match and tossed it casually, along with the match book, into the roaring hearth. “What’s the meaning of that message?”
My gaze automatically went to the fireplace as I quickly thought up something clever. “Well, it’s kind of a long story.”