'Funny thing,' Scott went on. 'I looked up suddenly just now and you seem to resemble this photograph. I wondered if it could be a young brother.'
'Never had a brother,' Johnny said.
Scott passed the newspaper to Freda.
'Don't you think this guy looks like Johnny?' Freda glanced at the photograph.
'Maybe.' Her voice was casual. 'You can't say Johnny is exactly an oil painting, can you?' and getting up, she began to collect the plates. Johnny helped her while Scott continued to stare at the photograph.
Out in the kitchen, Freda washed up while Johnny dried. They didn't speak, but both were aware of tension.
Returning to the living-room, they found Scott still staring at the ad. Freda went out on deck and as Johnny followed her, Scott said, 'Funny sort of ad., isn't it?'
Johnny paused and came back to the table. He sat down.
'It sure is.'
'What do you imagine the idea is offering all this money for a guy who's lost his memory?'
'Rich parents, I guess . . . anxious to find him.' Scott studied the photograph.
'Doesn't look as if he comes from rich parents, does he?' He glanced at Johnny. 'Bit on the rough side . . . like you and me.' 'Yeah.'
'Ten thousand dollars! If I had all that money I'd buy me three more trucks and I'd really be in the business.' Scott's face lit up. 'Finding drivers is easy, but getting the capital for trucks is something else.'
'Ever thought of doubling your turn-over without buying more trucks?' Johnny asked, anxious to get Scott's mind off the ad.
'How?'
'You deliver crates of shrimps to Richville . . . right?'
'So?'
'But you come back empty. Can't you get freight from Richville to bring back to New Symara?'
'Do you imagine I haven't thought of that?' Scott said scornfully. 'You go out and sniff the truck. It stinks of shrimps. No one wants haulage that stinks that bad. I've tried, and anyway, there's nothing in Richville that New Symara wants.'
'Just an idea.' Johnny got to his feet. 'I guess I'll turn in. See you.'
Scott nodded.
Johnny left him still staring at the ad.
Lying in his little bed, watching the moon while he thought, Johnny wasn't ready for sleep. He thought of Freda. Suppose he could trust her? She would be safe going to the Greyhound bus station and getting the money. But could he trust her? Then his mind switched to Scott. Had he convinced him that he had no connection with the ad?
He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to sleep. Then he became alert. He heard Freda enter her room. What a woman! His mind dwelt on the three times they had made love and he had the urge to leave his bed and go into her room and take her again.
Then a slight sound made him stiffen. His door was gently opening. He lay still, his hand reaching under his pillow for his gun.
The moonlight coming through the open window shone directly on the door and through half closed eyes he saw Scott was looking at him through the half-open door.
Johnny emitted a soft snore, watching Scott who stood there, still, listening. Johnny snored again and the door closed silently.
What did this mean? He asked himself, now fully awake. He listened. He heard Freda's door open,
'Come out on deck.' Scott's whisper came clearly to Johnny. 'Don't say anything . . . he's asleep.'
Johnny waited. He heard soft movements, then silence. He slid out of his bed, opened his door and peered into the moon-lit livingroom. He saw Scott and Freda through the window. They were on the deck. Moving like a ghost, he crept into the living- room as he heard Scott say, 'Look at this.'
He had a flashlight in his hand and he was directing the beam on to a sheet of newsprint. Johnny knew at once it was the ad. He moved further fonvard.
'See?' Scott said, his voice low and excited. 'I've pencilled a beard on him. It's Johnny!'
'What are you talking about?' Freda's voice was also a whisper but it came clearly to Johnny. 'This man's twenty years younger.'
'Could be an old photograph.'
They were standing side by side by the deck rail. Scott was wearing pjyamas. Freda had a shortie nightdress. Johnny could see her long legs through the moon-lit flimsy material.
'Sit down. I want to talk to you.'
Johnny watched them move to the bamboo chairs and sit, side by side. He moved forward so he now stood in the darkness within three feet of them, listening through the open window behind them.
'I've been thinking about this,' Scott said. 'This missing man is Johnny Bianda. Our lodger calls himself
