The ninth of October was overcast—cold and muggy—as was George’s disposition. No one was any longer interested in fishing. The gambler slept; the girls kept to themselves on deck; and George shut himself up in the cabin, waiting for the phone to ring. He swore under his breath occasionally, but otherwise passed the morning in silence. He contemplated the luxury of his silk dressing gown, the brass and mahogany furnishings around him, the good, solid teakwood deck beneath his feet; and the thought of the virtually penniless and belligerent drunkard who was about to call him from a crumby little beach house in Miami. At his feet sat the pile of newspapers, opened to the sporting pages. He looked down at them now and swore. He was beginning to sweat.

Outside the cabin window the sky was dead white, hanging thickly over the cold green Atlantic horizon. They were ninety miles out from shore, the pilot had said. George continued drinking, angry now at himself—the other himself—for not having bothered to mention the time of day his call had been received. He had dialed the number at about two in the afternoon; but of course that didn’t mean that two o’clock was the time it was received, two months later. He continued looking at his watch and at the telephone and at his watch again, drinking. Occasionally he would look out the window at the serenely violent ocean, ice green beneath the fishbelly sky, and curse.

And then, just before two o’clock, an idea struck him, a very simple idea: Why should he wait? He would make the call himself. He had never, in the two months since it had happened, tried dialing his own number again—why had he never thought of it? Why should he wait for that poor slob of a hungover George Bledsoe to call him—him with his private fishing boat and his twenty-dollar whiskey?

He picked up the phone angrily, with thick fingers, and began dialing: BE-8-5883. He was breathing heavily. After the last digit the phone began to buzz, ringing. He smiled sweatily and leaned back in his chair. Then there was a click and a voice answered. “Hello?”

He sat bolt upright in his chair. It was a woman’s voice.

He hesitated and then said, “Hello.” Could he have dialed the wrong number? “What number is this?”

The voice was that of an old woman, quavery but matter-of-fact. “This is BE-8-5883. Mrs. Arthur Cavanaugh talking.”

“Oh.” He took a quick sip from his drink. “Is… is George Bledsoe there?”

“No. No, he isn’t.” There seemed to be some hesitation in her voice. “Mr. Bledsoe hasn’t lived in this house for some time.”

Abruptly he felt relieved—he had probably only moved to a bigger home. About time, anyway. But why had he been frightened of this old bat on the phone?