But it had really been the lashing trees that frightened him, not the storm itself.
Now he thought of the trees quite often when he heard of Melinda being out with Carpenter in the afternoon—though, as a matter of fact, he thought she often told him she was out with Carpenter, driving him out to Bear Lake, visiting with him in his house, or having cocktails with him at the Chesterfield bar, when she had been doing something else. He found this especially revolting. Outwardly, however, he reacted not at all to it. No more edged remarks, no frowns of annoyance. He asked Melinda perhaps twice more if she didn't want to ask Harold to the house, once when they were having the Mellers again and once when they had a standing six-rib roast. Melinda invited him neither time. And Vic thought, was this the technique? Trying to make him think their relationship had become so personal that they did not want to share their company with anybody else? That cold fish, Mr. Carpenter. He had control, perhaps, but he was the worst actor in the world. Whom did he think he was fooling? He hadn't even succeeded in getting the town to talk more against Victor Van Allen. And the thought that 'he' might be paying for all this was, to say the least, irksome.
Vic kept his temper until he saw Ralph Gosden and Don Wilson walking along the street together one day. It was about one o'clock, and Vic had driven through town on his way home to lunch in order to pick up a pair of Trixie's shoes that he had left at the shoemaker's to be repaired. When he came out of the shoemaker's, Wilson and Ralph were on the same sidewalk, walking toward him, and he saw them both flinch, he thought, at the sight of him, and at the flinching his anger flared.
"Hello, there," Vic said, with a little smile as he approached them. "I'd like to ask you something."
They stopped. "What?" Ralph asked, with a cocky smile, though his thin skin paled.
"I think you both know Mr. Harold Carpenter," Vic said. Ralph was flustered, but Wilson finally mumbled that he had met him.
"I bet you have," Vic said. "Did you hire him?"
"Hire him? What do you mean?" Wilson's black eyebrows came down.
"You must know what I mean. He's not anything he says he is. I concluded that he was a detective, probably picked out by you, Wilson. Didn't you go to New York and choose him—?" Vic choked off the last phrase he might have said, "for my wife."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Wilson said, scowling.
But Vic could tell from Ralph's scared eyes that he had hit the truth, or somewhere very near it. "I think you know what I'm talking about. He's a detective and you know it, don't you? Don't you, Wilson?" Vic advanced a little and Wilson stepped back. Vic could have struck him, with pleasure.
Wilson glanced around him to see if anyone was watching them. "He may be. I don't know the man very well."
"Who picked him out? Didn't you? Or did you, Ralph?" he said, looking at Ralph. "On second thought, you wouldn't have the courage. You just stand around and watch, don't you, Ralph?"
"Are you out of your head?" Ralph managed to say.
"What agency did you get him from, Wilson?" Vic asked, still leaning forward intently.
"What's the matter? Is he seeing too much of your wife?" Ralph chirped in. "Why don't you kill him if you don't like him?" "Shut up," Wilson said to Ralph. Wilson seemed to be trembling. "What agency?" Vic asked. "There's no use stalling, I 'know' he's a detective." And if Carpenter wasn't, Vic thought, if he was all wrong then they could just consider him mad. That was fine. "Neither of you talking? Well, I can get it out of Melinda. I didn't want to have to ask her, but she'll tell me soon enough. She doesn't think I know anything yet." Vic looked at Wilson contemptuously: "I'll make it known around here when I find out, Wilson. You might decide it's more comfortable if you move."
"Oh, stop being God, Vic!" Ralph said, suddenly finding a little terrified courage. "Do you think you own this town? And justice, too?"
"There're names for people like you, Ralph. Do you want me to call you a few of them?" Vic asked, his neck flushing with anger. Ralph shut his mouth.
"I think you know my opinion of you," Wilson said. "I told it to you right to your face."
"You're a brave man, Wilson. Why haven't you the courage to tell me where you found Carpenter? I'd like to discontinue his services, since I'm paying for them." Vic waited, watching the emotions churning in Wilson's scowling face. "No courage, Wilson?"
"Yes, I've got the courage. It's the Confidential Detective Service in Manhattan." Wilson said.
"Confidential!" Vic put his head back and laughed. "Ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho-o! Confidential!"
Wilson and Ralph exchanged nervous looks.
"Thanks," Vic said. "I'll call them up this afternoon. Tell me, did you pick him out, Wilson?"
Wilson said nothing. He backed away as if to leave, as if he had had enough.
"Didn't you pick him out, Wilson?" Vic called after them.
Wilson glanced back, but he did not speak. He didn't have to.
Vic had a quiet lunch alone—Melinda was not in-read some of the book about stained-glass windows, then went to the Manhattan classified directory and looked up the Confidential Detective Service under the
