The woman was saying querulously, “Are you a friend… of Mr. Bledsoe’s?”

He laughed suddenly, coarsely. “That’s right, lady. I’m a friend of Mr. Bledsoe’s.”

“Well, I don’t know just how to tell you this,” the woman said, “but a person would have thought you’d read about it in the papers. It was in all the papers. They found Mr. Bledsoe’s body, stark naked, a hundred miles out in the Gulf. It was about two months ago they found him, and the thing is there’s nobody yet knows how he got out there.”

He sat silent for what seemed a very long time. There was a faint clicking in the phone, but he ignored this. The woman must be mistaken. An old fool. A bitch. Although the cabin was tightly closed, he felt the distinct sensation of a cold wind blowing on the back of his neck. Shaking himself, he gathered his voice together. The woman was a lying bitch. “How George Bledsoe got out there, lady, was in his private boat,” he said, more to himself than to her. “The same way he’s gonna get back to shore. In his private boat.”

The wind on the back of his neck was stronger now, and he was shivering. The wind seemed to be penetrating his clothes, even, blowing through his dressing gown, through the tailored silk shirt beneath it. Dimly, as if from a great and dreadful distance, he heard the old woman’s voice saying, “Why, Mr. Bledsoe never had a boat, Lord forbid. Mr. Bledsoe was a poor man…”

Abruptly he leaned forward, shouting, “No. No, you rotten bitch!” and he slammed the phone back in its cradle. It was cold in the room. He was shivering. There was a bright, grayish light in the cabin, getting brighter. He grabbed the phone again, shaking, and dialed O, for the operator. The dial felt soft to his finger, squashy.

The operator’s voice came, faint. “Ship-to-shore service.”

His voice was hoarse, strange in his ears. “This is Bledsoe. BE-8-5883. Is there a call for me?”

“No, sir. Or, yes, there was a call.”

“From who?” It took an effort to keep from shouting—or screaming.

“Just a moment.” And then, “That’s odd, sir; it must be an error. I have the number calling listed as BE-8-5883. And that’s your number, sir.”

“My God, I know. Put the call through.”

Her voice was fainter, fading away from him. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait until the party calls again. When he called, a few moments ago, the line was busy…” The last words were so faint that he could hardly hear them. He was screaming when she finished, “Put the call through, God damn it, put the call through.”

From the receiver her voice was the minute thread of a whisper, but he heard it plainly. “I’m sorry sir, the line was busy.”