Read The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance for Free Online Page B

bullets.
    I’m not sure where the conversation would have gone next if the phone hadn’t rung in the hallway. Neither Gunther nor I was foolish enough to answer it. Mrs. Plaut would beat us to it even if it meant that she had to rush up the stairs or come inside from the garage, where she spent her spare moments keeping her 1924 Ford running. Even if you happened to be lucky enough to get to the phone first, she would arrive from nowhere to take it from you with the aid of a sharp elbow. Her ability to know when the phone was ringing was further evidence of the possible correctness of Gunther’s vibration theory.
    We sat while the phone rang two more times. I picked at remaining crumbs. Gunther finished his first cup of coffee.
    Then the sound of feet clapping up the stairs and the end of the ringing, followed by Mrs. Plaut’s voice knifing through the closed door.
    “Hello? … Yes? … All things are possible … One thousand or more … I’ll see if Mr. Peelers is disposed.”
    Then the footsteps of Mrs. Plaut coming to my door, a sharp knock, and the sudden opening of the door before I could say either enter or stay out.
    “The phone is for you,” she said, surveying our breakfast dishes. “Did you look at the photographs?”
    “Thank you,” I answered, getting up. “I looked at some of them, yes.”
    She considered barring my way as I walked to the door and then, thanks to some intervention of the gods, changed her mind and backed away. I rambled down the hall, with her close behind, and picked up the phone.
    “That woman is not reliable,” came a familiar voice.
    “It depends on what you want from her, Merit,” I said, smiling at Mrs. Plaut, who waited for me, hands at her side, wearing a pensive scowl and a purple housedress covered with white flowers.
    “Toby, Merit Beason has been shot again,” he said.
    Straight-Ahead did not make jokes. I took him seriously. “What happened?”
    “Teddy,” he said. “It didn’t go into the book the way we wrote it. The weapon was yours. The circumstances were mine. Can you get down to County Hospital, Room four-oh-three?”
    “I’ll be right there, Merit,” I said, and hung up.
    “Exterminating?” asked Mrs. Plaut.
    “Maybe,” I said, and hurried back to my room to ask Gunther to clean up for me, which he would have done anyway.
    The day was sunny. My car started and I had enough gas for the trip.
    I turned on the car radio and got a bugle call and a guy telling me to join the civilian army and cut the waste of gasoline. He also told me that “ordinary guys” like me could help save lives by not racing my engine, by turning off the motor when I was waiting for a friend, by shifting gears faster, by reducing speed on the open road, by having my carburetor checked, and by sharing rides with other ordinary guys.
    I switched to another station and got Ray Eberle and the Modernaires singing “I Guess I’ll Have to Dream the Rest.” I tried to sing along, messed up the words, and shut up.
    Parking downtown near the hospital was a problem. I didn’t want to pay for a parking lot and I didn’t want to waste time looking for a space. I didn’t know had badly Straight-Ahead had been shot—I might have saved a quarter and lost a business associate.
    Luck was with me. I spotted a space being eyed by a well-dressed woman in a black Buick. While she tried to decide if she could fit, I zipped past her and went straight in. It took some maneuvering to straighten my car out, so I was too busy to see if she gave me a dirty look. I wasn’t worried about dirty looks. My mission took priority over hers, whatever hers might be. I wasn’t quite sure what my mission was, really, but I was curious and worried about my gun, where it might be, and who might be getting shot with it.

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    T here were at least six good ways to get into County Hospital without checking in at the main desk and explaining your visit to one of the ex-schoolteachers behind the