'Yes,' he said, 'they got a right to. And there was my blonde.'
'Blonde?'
'Yeah, and while she wouldn't ... I don't think. . . . Nobody,' said the bus driver forcefully, heaving himself away from his leaning position, 'is going to poison my blonde!' He grew taller. 'Is that your car?'
'Who is this blonde?' the young policeman said moving in.
'I don't know her name.'
'Where does she live?'
'I don't know where she lives.''
'She was on the bus?'
'Yeh, she was on the bus.'
'If you don't know her ... how come . . . ?'
'She doesn't know that she's my blonde—not yet. One of these days . . . Aw, I was biding my time. Now look,' the bus driver said, 'I'm going. One thing I do know and that's the stop she gets off at. I can find her. And nobody's going to poison my blonde.'
He set off toward Paul's car.
'Oh yes! Paul,' Rosemary cried, 'Kenneth, come on! We'll all go, find her. She might have noticed . . . Hurry,
come on
The whole group was streaming toward Paul's car.
The older policeman said, 'Wait ... I can call in, you know. I can get a prowl car there in seconds ...'
'Where?' said the driver. 'When I don't know where myself? All I got is the stop. Comer of Allen and the Boulevard. What can you do with that? Thanks, anyway, but I guess I got to go find her myself. I'll know her when I see her, see?'
'What about this bus?'
'Life and death,' said the driver, with his hand on Paul's car. 'Let them fire me.' Paul was right behind him. 'Give me the keys,' the driver said.
'My car . . . I'll drive.' Paul looked as if he were suffering. His mouth was grim.
'You are an amateur,' said the bus driver, and took the keys out of Paul's hand.
Mr. Gibson knew only that Rosemary's hands were pulling and hustling him. He and she got into the back seat. Paul got in beside the bus driver.
'Good luck,' said the older policeman, rather kindly. 'Call in, now.' The younger one was chewing grass.
The bus driver was moving levers. Paul's car surged backward, slipped out into traffic. It seemed to respond with pleasure to a master's hand. 'I can make better time, that's all,' the bus driver said. 'Driving's my business. Every business has its skills.'
'That's all right,' Paul murmured.
They were sailing back toward town.
Chapter XV
'The' name's Lee Coffey' said the bus driver suddenly. Paul straightened up with an effect of relaxing, of feeling better. 'I'm Paul Townsend,' he said in something nearer his normal amiable voice. 'A neighbor of the Gibsons'.'
'I see. And the lady is Mrs. Gibson.'
'Rosie,' said Paul, 'this is Lee Coffey—'
'Her name is Rosemary' Mr. Gibson heard himself saying loudly. 'My name is Kenneth Gibson. I am the man . . .'
'How do, Mrs. Rosemary?' the bus driver said over his shoulder. 'Say, Mr. Kenneth Gibson, what was it that was coming to you . . . you'd rather take poison?'
Mr. Gibson tried to swallow with a dry mouth.
Paul said quickly, 'No, no, don't talk about it. It was a temporary . . . He didn't even know what he was doing. He must have been crazy. He's all right now.'
'What puts him all right, all of a sudden?' the bus driver said.
'Why, he knows ... he has friends. He's got everything to live for.'
'Candy?' said the bus driver.
'I don't know what you mean.'
'I never could get that,' said the bus driver, sliding the car skillfully to a strategic position in the center lane. 'How come—now you take a suicide sitting on a ledge up high, see ... ? People trying to talk him out of it, offer the same as loUypops. Everybody's his friend, they tell him. Come home, the dog needs him. Or he can have beer. He can have chocolate. . . . Seems to me if a man gets to the point of taking his life he's got more serious things in his mind. It's no time for candy, is it?'
'You are wrong,' said Mr. Gibson forcefully.
