Read Online Stranger At Home by George Sanders - Free Book Online Page B

Vickers got up. He closed the log book and held it out to Trehearne. “Would you care to take this along and read it?”
    Trehearne said, “You’re just loaning it to me because you love me.”
    â€œQuite.”
    â€œWould you mind stepping over here?” Trehearne indicated the librarian’s desk. They had already attracted her unfavorable attention by raising their voices above a whisper. Vickers shrugged and walked toward her with Trehearne. She watched their approach with marked dislike.
    Trehearne stopped and leaned his elbow on the desk. “You’re sure you want to loan me the book, Mr. Vickers?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    He held it out. Trehearne took it. He said, “Thanks very much, Mr. Vickers. I’ll take good care of it.”
    â€˜I’m sure you will, Mr. Trehearne.”
    Trehearne started off. The librarian said sharply, “Here! Just a minute.”
    Trehearne stopped. He gazed at the librarian as one does at a rude child. Then the light broke. “Oh!” he said, holding up the book. “You thought the...” He laughed. “No, no. It’s Mr. Vickers’ personal book. Here, I’ll show you.” He opened the cover to show her the flyleaf.
    She took one good look. Things happened to her face. Trehearne received a premonition that all was not well. He turned the book around and had a look himself. The mermaids frisked merrily around the page, their marvelous anatomies betraying a distressing lack of inhibition. Trehearne looked back at the librarian. He turned scarlet. The librarian leaned forward.
    â€œGet that filthy thing out of here,” she said, “before I call a policeman.”
    Trehearne fled.
    Vickers raised his head in the cathedral hush and roared with laughter.
    Later, in the cab that was taking him home, Vickers took out the envelope he had found with the log book. 
    There was nothing in it but a lock of soft black hair.
    He held it in his fingers, and sat looking at it. He was dimly aware that the cab had turned and begun to climb the hill. He was dimly aware that it slowed and shifted into second at the place where the road twisted and became even more steep. He heard nothing but the complaining snarl of the motor until something snapped past his head, close. Very close. Little stinging flies attacked his cheek. He saw a neat round hole in the window beside him, and as he went down quickly onto the floor he saw that there was another hole, less neat, in the rear window. He put up his hand to his face and pulled out a tiny sliver of glass. There was a little blood and he got out his handkerchief. The cabby drove on. He was thinking about hamburgers and cold beer, and the cute redhead who served them, and wishing he didn’t have a wife and two kids.
    He ground the cab to a stop in front of the house on top of the hill and said, “That’ll be a dollar and thirty cents.”

Chapter Seven
    Coolin the hound lay on the rug beside Vickers’ bed. He did not sleep. His eyes were deep-sunken and watchful under the rough gray ridges of his brows. His ears moved, delicately, testing the meaning of each sound. Once or twice he raised his head, but he knew that there was no need to rise.
    His master slept, and dreamed.
    The long windows were open. The night was cool. It had fog in it, and the damp bitter-sweet smell of the garden, and it was quiet. Michael Vickers lay on his hard clean bed that had no pillows.
    His eyes were closed, but he could see the room. It was tall like the nave of a church, and dim, and wonderfully still. He could feel the coolness and smell the freshness of evergreens on the air. This is my place , he thought. I am safe here . The sheets of his bed were crisp and had a white feel against his body.
    He pushed them back and rose.
    The high room stretched before him. He walked slowly down the middle of it, and the moist air pressed against him. It was almost as heavy as water. He looked