me last night.”
His wife sobered. The sunshine filtering through the Venetian blinds wasn’t warm on her any more. “Let’s throw it away, Johnny.”
“No. Everything I said last night might be right. We should have guessed a pencil before. Remember? In his pockets, Anglin had something to write
on
but nothing to write
with.”
“Let’s just throw it away. We came up here to have fun.”
Ordinarily, John Henry would have given in to this typical wifely illogicality. But in his hand was Aladdin’s lamp, Long John Silver’s map, Ali Baba’s magic phrase. Strange excitement gripped him and he temporized. “Well — let’s just look at it a little first.” Sin sighed and lost.
He turned the Eversharp over and over, while his brown eyes scrutinized its scratched surface. He gave an impatient grunt.
“What are you looking for, honey?”
John Henry took off the removable eraser and peered into the dark recesses of the cylinder. There seemed to be something wrapped tightly around the pencil’s lead cartridge. He probed for it with a forefinger, then borrowed one of Sin’s bobby pins. A couple of grunts later, he breathed out in satisfaction and pried a long narrow strip of tightly rolled paper from the interior of the pencil. “Well!” he announced happily.
“Quick, open it up! What is it?” Now the excitement had Sin too, and she crowded close against her husband’s shoulder.
The paper was oiled and the tight rolling made it hard to handle since it kept coiling up between John Henry’s fingers. The Conovers perused the column of writing on the paper strip and then looked at each other for an answer.
“What do you make out of that?” John Henry wanted to know.
“See?” Sin rejoined. Her point was that they didn’t know any more now than they had before and they should have thrown the pencil away to begin with.
The writing on the paper resembled mostly an incredibly long safe combination. “Is that what it is?” John Henry asked.
“That long?”
“What else could it be?”
Sin thought for a moment. “Theater seats?” It was her husband’s turn to laugh scornfully. She took the narrow strip of oiled paper from him and read it off slowly, carefully. “R-1. L-3. R-2. L-1. R-2. L-3. R-1. L-2. R-1. L-1. R-2. L-3. R-2. L-5. R-1. L-3. R-2. L-1. R-1.”
“Must be a code,” John Henry muttered. “R and L usually stand for right and left, but maybe this is a cipher.”
“I don’t know,” Sin admitted. Then she added, “I don’t want to know.”
John Henry wound up the oiled paper and replaced it in the barrel of the Eversharp. This done, he began to amble around the room, speculatively appraising the walls and furniture.
“What are you up to now?”
“Sin, what’s the most likely place to find a pencil?”
“I don’t know — in the desk, I guess.”
John Henry nodded. Sin could tell from the set of his mouth that his mind was made up about something. He pulled open the center drawer of the small redwood writing desk, deposited the Eversharp reverently in the pencil trough, and closed the drawer again. “Psychology,” he explained condescendingly: “The best place to hide anything is right under people’s noses. They never think to look in the obvious places.”
Sin remembered her own luck along this line in parlor games but said nothing. The sooner the pencil was stolen and gone, the better. “Hey, where you going, Johnny?”
“Back in a few minutes,” John Henry said from the doorway. “After all that’s happened, I want to grill this Jordan woman.”
“Johnny, you come back here!”
“I won’t be long — ”
“John Henry — I warn you — ”
“I know you’ll be reasonable, Sin.”
John Henry Conover closed the blue door in time to block the pillow hurled by his reasonable wife.
“Make it good,” Barselou gritted between his teeth to the plate-glass window. “Or make it funny. I’d like to laugh.”
Behind him, across the broad desk, Odell
His wife sobered. The sunshine filtering through the Venetian blinds wasn’t warm on her any more. “Let’s throw it away, Johnny.”
“No. Everything I said last night might be right. We should have guessed a pencil before. Remember? In his pockets, Anglin had something to write
on
but nothing to write
with.”
“Let’s just throw it away. We came up here to have fun.”
Ordinarily, John Henry would have given in to this typical wifely illogicality. But in his hand was Aladdin’s lamp, Long John Silver’s map, Ali Baba’s magic phrase. Strange excitement gripped him and he temporized. “Well — let’s just look at it a little first.” Sin sighed and lost.
He turned the Eversharp over and over, while his brown eyes scrutinized its scratched surface. He gave an impatient grunt.
“What are you looking for, honey?”
John Henry took off the removable eraser and peered into the dark recesses of the cylinder. There seemed to be something wrapped tightly around the pencil’s lead cartridge. He probed for it with a forefinger, then borrowed one of Sin’s bobby pins. A couple of grunts later, he breathed out in satisfaction and pried a long narrow strip of tightly rolled paper from the interior of the pencil. “Well!” he announced happily.
“Quick, open it up! What is it?” Now the excitement had Sin too, and she crowded close against her husband’s shoulder.
The paper was oiled and the tight rolling made it hard to handle since it kept coiling up between John Henry’s fingers. The Conovers perused the column of writing on the paper strip and then looked at each other for an answer.
“What do you make out of that?” John Henry wanted to know.
“See?” Sin rejoined. Her point was that they didn’t know any more now than they had before and they should have thrown the pencil away to begin with.
The writing on the paper resembled mostly an incredibly long safe combination. “Is that what it is?” John Henry asked.
“That long?”
“What else could it be?”
Sin thought for a moment. “Theater seats?” It was her husband’s turn to laugh scornfully. She took the narrow strip of oiled paper from him and read it off slowly, carefully. “R-1. L-3. R-2. L-1. R-2. L-3. R-1. L-2. R-1. L-1. R-2. L-3. R-2. L-5. R-1. L-3. R-2. L-1. R-1.”
“Must be a code,” John Henry muttered. “R and L usually stand for right and left, but maybe this is a cipher.”
“I don’t know,” Sin admitted. Then she added, “I don’t want to know.”
John Henry wound up the oiled paper and replaced it in the barrel of the Eversharp. This done, he began to amble around the room, speculatively appraising the walls and furniture.
“What are you up to now?”
“Sin, what’s the most likely place to find a pencil?”
“I don’t know — in the desk, I guess.”
John Henry nodded. Sin could tell from the set of his mouth that his mind was made up about something. He pulled open the center drawer of the small redwood writing desk, deposited the Eversharp reverently in the pencil trough, and closed the drawer again. “Psychology,” he explained condescendingly: “The best place to hide anything is right under people’s noses. They never think to look in the obvious places.”
Sin remembered her own luck along this line in parlor games but said nothing. The sooner the pencil was stolen and gone, the better. “Hey, where you going, Johnny?”
“Back in a few minutes,” John Henry said from the doorway. “After all that’s happened, I want to grill this Jordan woman.”
“Johnny, you come back here!”
“I won’t be long — ”
“John Henry — I warn you — ”
“I know you’ll be reasonable, Sin.”
John Henry Conover closed the blue door in time to block the pillow hurled by his reasonable wife.
“Make it good,” Barselou gritted between his teeth to the plate-glass window. “Or make it funny. I’d like to laugh.”
Behind him, across the broad desk, Odell
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