* * *

  He stared out the bus window. He noticed a flag unfurled above a yellow building, the Richmont Main Post Office. He reached up, yanked the signal cord. After he got off, he waited a moment, watching the bus. The other passengers didn’t even glance up.

  He shrugged his coat up on his shoulders and walked up the post office steps. At the parcel post window the clerk was looking at the pictures in a magazine.

  He looked up at Henry. “Yes, sir?”

  “Who do I see about a letter I got by mistake?”

  “I can take it, mister. You just mark on it that it’s not for you.”

  “Fine,” Harry said. It was so simple. It made him feel ten years younger. He took the letter from his inside coat pocket, fumbled out his fountain pen and laid it on the counter. “What do I write? Just, ‘not for me’?”

  “No. You can just say it was left at the wrong address.”

  Henry swallowed. “Well, no. You see, the address is all right.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe it’s for the people who lived in the house before you. Sometimes that happens. Just write on there that the person addressed to doesn’t live there.”

  “But that’s it. It came addressed to me.”

  “Wait a minute, mister. What do you mean?”

  “I mean this is my name, all right. And my address.”

  The clerk frowned. “Then what makes you think the letter is not for you?”

  “Because I don’t know the man who wrote it. They’ve just got the wrong Henry Wilson, that’s all.”

  The clerk sighed. “Your name Henry Wilson, mister?”

  “Yes. But——”

  “Look, mister: your name, your address, a letter you don’t want. We’ve done all we can do for three cents.”

  “But there’s a mistake. It’s the wrong Henry Wilson.”

  “Sorry, mister. We get all kinds of complaints. But not many about delivering letters addressed right—to the right address.” He grinned at Henry, but not with him. The clerk shook his head and turned to the woman standing beside Henry. “Yes, ma’m, what can I do for you?”

  Henry looked at the clerk and then down at the letter. He shook his head and started to turn away.

  The clerk was weighing a package. He said, “I got an idea, mister.”

  Henry turned. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Why don’t you just drop that letter in a waste basket and forget all about it?”

  Henry swallowed and walked out of the wide doors. He stood on the top step, feeling empty and alone in the bright sunlight. He was still gripping the letter in his hand.

  CHAPTER IV

  Henry pushed open the glass door marked Accounts in the sprawling VA office. He glanced at the clock, feeling guilty. Nine-thirty-five. They’d gig him good for this.

  He noticed the people sitting near the time clock grinning at him.

  Fred Smathers came over. “First time you been late like this in six months, buster. Used to be because you stayed up all night with your wife. Who you staying up with now?”

  Henry grinned at him. “Yours,” he said.

  Fred smiled. “You fool,” he said. “You poor silly fool.”

  Henry hung his hat and coat in the office locker. He reached for his time card and noticed the note pinned to it.

  Scrawled in red pencil was notation, “See Mellor.”

  Fred read it over his shoulder. “That’s Mellor,” he said. “Stinker Mellor. He can always smell the mornings you’re going to be late. Then he pins notes on your card, just to make you more uncomfortable.”

  “This just isn’t my day,” Henry said.

  “Well, it ain’t mine either,” Fred said, “so don’t blame me.”

  Henry sighed. “Guess I better get in there and see him. Not going to gain anything by waiting, except ulcers.”

  * * *

  The gold lettering on the glass door read Personnel. Henry pushed the door open, carrying Mellor’s note.

  Mellor’s secretary looked up without smiling. When an employee came in to see Mellor it wasn’t safe to smile at him. Mellor might think you were a friend of his. This was the day of loyalty in government... and loyalty checks.

  “See Mellor.” Henry said. Why were his lips so dry? He handed the woman the note.

  “All right,” she said. “Go in.”

  Mellor looked up with an expansive smile when Henry came in. He was a very tall man with faded grey hair that flopped over his forehead.

  “Yes, sir.” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  For the first time Henry realised there were so many employees that Mellor didn’t even know them.

  “You left a note on my time card,” Henry said. “You wanted to see me.”

  Mellor’s secretary had followed Henry into the office. “This is Henry Wilson, Mr. Mellor. From Accounting.”

  Mellor fumbled some papers on his desk. “Ummm. Yes,” he said. “Yes.” Then he found a paper and nodded. The smile was gone. “Oh, yes. Wilson. Employee 619.” He frowned and leaned across his desk. “I’m sorry, Wilson, I’ve got to ask for your resignation.”

  Not even the man who struck him in the temples had stunned him any more. Henry just stared.

  “Why?”

  “Wilson, you know as well as I do why.”

  “Look. I don’t know why.”

  “Examine your own conscience, Wilson, your own mind. Your own past. Ask yourself if you didn’t know that to lie on an employment application for a government job is to defraud your own government.”

  Henry’s mouth tightened. “Look, let’s stop waving flags. This job pays sixty-five bucks a week. I do what they ask of me. I didn’t lie to get it. I haven’t defrauded anybody.”

  Mellor stood up. “I’m prepared to let you resign, Wilson. I hope you won’t try my patience. I’m not a mild man. You can get yourself in a lot of trouble if you persist in forcing me to bring charges against you.”

  Henry clenched his fists. He felt the sweat on his forehead. “Charges of what?”

  “Wilson, we have proof in this office that you once served time in the state penitentiary in California. A man with a prison record is not acceptable for employment in this office.”

  “Well, it’s a lie. I was never in any prison. I was never in California.”

  “I’m sorry to see you take this stand. I give a man the benefit of every doubt. No one gets to my men except through me. One of my boys needs help, I go to the plate for him. I bat for my men, Wilson, bat hard. But when one of them does me dirt, I’m merciless, Wilson. Merciless. Now, we have proof, dates and affidavits. If you want to resign, I’m going to let you. But if you want to make an issue of this, believe me I won’t leave you a leg to stand on.”

  “Why can’t you believe me? I’ve never been in prison. I was never in California.”

  “You’d hardly be expected to confess to a matter as serious as this when you’ve already lied on your application.”

  “I didn’t lie!”

  Mellor’s face was cold. “This is your last chance, Wilson. Are you willing to resign?”

  “No! This is my job. I’ve a wife to support. Why should I resign because of somebody’s lies?”

  Mellor’s voice was soft. “Now, Wilson, I want to be as friendly as I can. Just as long as I can. You can save yourself a lot of grief by signing this resignation. I’m a man who never goes off until he’s primed, cocked and ready. I’d never have asked you in this office on such a serious matter if I hadn’t been sure of my ground. Now, why not sign this paper and save yourself a lot of grief?”

  “Because I want to hear that proof.”

  Mellor sighed. His mouth hardened. “All right, Wilson. We’ll notify you. In a few days your case will come before the Board. Meanwhile, consider yourself on suspension until such time as your hearing is called.”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Cass Murchison looked up when the patrolman led Henry into the small, poorly lighted office on the second floor of police headquarters. Murchison was a thick-chested, heavy-set man with flushed face and unruly brown hair.

  He scratched his fingers through his hair backwards so his hand looked like a crab crawling through seaweed. He said, “Yes. sir. What’s your complaint?”

  “I got a threatening letter through the mail.” Henry said. “I want to know if there’s anything I can do about it?”

  “There certainly is,” Murchison said. “You got any idea who sent the letter?”

  “No.” Henry shook his head. “It’s signed ‘Sammy.’ But that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Never had any enemies named Sam? You know, sometimes something happens that doesn’t mean a thing in God’s world to us. But something is screwed up in the minds of the other person, and he’ll carry a grudge until it festers into hate that nothing will contain.”

  “I never knew anybody could even hate as hard as the guy who wrote that letter.” Henry said.

  “Could I see it?”

  “Sure.” Henry handed the letter across the desk. The lieutenant examined the envelope, the letter, and shook his head. “Pretty bad,” he said at last. “And the letter was mailed here in town. You sure you don’t remember anybody by that name, say out in San Francisco?”

  “I’ve never been in San Francisco. I’ve never even been in California.”

  “I see. Maybe you got somebody else’s letter.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Henry said. “That’s what I’d like to think.” He told the lieutenant about the man who’d slugged him before eight that morning and told him the professional work-over was from Sammy.

  “And then that letter came?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it looks a little more serious than a crank. Can you describe the man who hit you?”

  “Yes.” Henry told about the fish eyes, the way the mouth sawed itself into a smile, the slug-white fish, the professional going-over.

  “A guy like that shouldn’t be hard to find,” Murchison said. “We’ll line up some pictures. We’ll want you to look at them. We might want to call you in to a line-up. Could you give me your address?”

  “Nine-sixteen Oak Street,” Henry said. He gave him his telephone number.

  “That’s fine. Now in case we want to reach you during the day, Mr. Wilson, where do you work?”

  Henry swallowed hard. He dragged his tongue across his lips. Murchison looked up.

  “I’m not working just now,” Henry said. “I got fired, this morning.”

  Murchison frowned. He glanced at that letter again. Henry began to wish he hadn’t come here at all.

  “Where did you work?” Murchison said. There was a change in his tone.

  “The VA. In Accounts,” Henry said.

  “You mind saying why you lost your job? Did it have anything to do with this letter?”

  Henry breathed heavily. “I don’t know. That’s why I came straight here when I got suspended. They said they had proof I’d been in prison in California.”

  “Oh. I see.” There was something charged in the room.

  “I told you. I was never in California.”

  “Yet the government would suspend you? They must have pretty good evidence against you.”

  “I tell you, that’s why I came here. They do have evidence. They do! But it’s all wrong. That’s why I came to you. A beating like this morning. That was rugged. But I could take it. And this letter. Maybe it was a crank. Maybe it was a mistake. But now I’ve lost my job—something’s got to be done about it.”

  Murchison leaned back in his swivel chair. “Maybe you better start by telling all there is to tell about yourself.”

  “I told you. It’s a mistake. I was never in California.”

  Henry was sweating, and his clothes were sticking to his body.

  “How about your wife, Wilson? You married? Does your wife know about this?”

  Henry dampened his lips again. He now knew he’d been hasty coming here. Murchison would be throwing questions at him about Lila.

  “She had nothing to do with it,” Henry said. “She doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Could she have had a boy friend named Sammy? Seems he knows her. Lila. Is that your wife’s name?”

  “Yes.” Henry stood up. “Yes, that’s her name.”

  “Maybe you better ask her about it, Wilson. She might be able to tell you quite a lot.”

  “All right. All right.” Henry set his hat back above his sweating forehead. “I’ll ask her when I get home.”

  Murchison was watching him coldly. “Yeah, you do that. And keep in touch, Wilson. I’ll keep in touch with you. And I’ll just hang on to this letter. Okay?”

  Henry’s stomach was tied in knots and he could feel it shaking. He nodded at Murchison again and backed all the way to the door. He opened it with Murchison’s eyes fixed on him. He thought he’d feel better when he got that door closed between him and those eyes.

  But he didn’t.

  CHAPTER V

  Henry stepped out into the sunlight. There was no warmth in the day, at least none that could reach the chill that jelled the marrow of his bones.

  He started walking aimlessly. The streets were crowded. It was almost eleven a.m. He wondered what Lila was doing this time of the day? He wanted to go home to her. Hell, there was nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go. He’d gone to the cops and what had that got him? A cop staring at him like he’d written that threatening letter instead of receiving it.

  He exhaled. How was he going to tell Lila about his job? He just couldn’t imagine himself saying to her, “Honey, I’m sorry, I’ve been fired.”

  He felt his eyes stinging. He stopped walking and looked around the crowded street. Where could he go, what could he do? He didn’t see how he could face Lila yet. Hell, first he had to get used to the idea of being fired.

  He shook his head. He started walking again. There was a chill in the air for everybody else. They hurried to keep warm. But Henry was sweating. How could he take this latest hurt home to Lila?

  In his mind he could see her, working around the house. Hell, she kept that place like she was always expecting the Captain’s inspection. A doll like that—she could have had a millionaire—and he had to tell her he’d lost his lousy sixty-five-buck-a-week job.

  How could he do it? He wanted to give her orchids, but maybe once a month he could afford a couple of gardenias. The least he could do was give her security. That was all he had—that and a dogged devotion that seemed to excite her.

  He crossed the street. A car hom blared at him. He didn’t even look around. He noticed the traffic was thinning. He was before the entrance of the John Quincy Bailey Park. A few cars swung past him to enter the park drive.

  He walked along the drive and then crossed a plot of grass to a green bench that was in the full glare of the sun. Nobody was near the bench. Henry sat down, staring across the park without seeing it. Before him the bronzed statue of John Quincy Bailey was delivering a silent address.

  He thought about his job and the way he’d lost it. One thing was sure. Mellor was sincere. Somebody had the goods on a Henry Wilson, and it was near enough to him to sell Mellor. Mellor hadn’t lied. He always tried to know where he was before he acted.

  “A no-good frimp,” somebody said.

  Henry started and felt his heart pound. He looked around. A stout man in a wrinkled black suit had sat down besides him on the bench. Henry looked around. There were no other empty benches. The stout man smoothed his grey hair and took a bag of popcorn from his pocket. He began to feed the pigeons. Pretty soon there were a dozen of them around the bench.

  “I said he was a no-good frimp,” the grey-haired man said. He jerked his flushed face towards the towering statue of John Quincy Bailey. “Listen. I knew that old pirate. He never gave anybody the sweat off his—Founder of this town! That’s a laugh. He robbed everybody blind. He charged six prices for all this land. Only reason the town settled here was the mines and J.Q. owned them.”

  “Yes,” Henry said. He thought, it’s no good going to the cops. Police never believe anybody. A man was supposed to be innocent until proved guilty. That was bull. You’re guilty, no matter what you prove. No. He didn’t have any faith in them. Murchison was going to watch him. That was fine. Swell. Sammy could kill him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Now the cops knew Henry Wilson lost his job. That made them sure something was queer about him.

  “Only reason old J. Quincy gave them the land for this park was to get ’em to put up that bronze effigy! He got old, saw the town growing up in spite of all he could do to stop it. You a stranger around here?”

  “No.” Henry thought, maybe Murchison was right about one thing. Lila must have known these guys somewhere. No. Damn it, he wasn’t going to start that again. She’d been an angel for six months. He’d hurt her this morning. That was all. He wasn’t going to put her through any more hell... So then, what was he going to do?

  “You lived around here long?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come you aren’t working this time of day, fine young fellow like you?”

  Henry looked at him. “Why aren’t you working, a gabby old windbag like you?”

  The stout man laughed. “Got troubles? That it, friend? Woman troubles?”

  “Why don’t you take your pigeons and go somewhere?”

  “Can’t do that, friend. My pigeons and me meet right here every day this time. Besides, might help if you talked about it. Your wife stepping out on you?”

  Henry didn’t answer. He could feel it building up inside him terrible enough to burst.

  “I can tell you this, friend,” the stout man said. “Women are all trouble. Good ones. Bad ones.” He shook his head. “They don’t mean to be, some of ’em. But they are.”

  “Okay,” Henry said. He thought, maybe if I could find that slug—that white-faced hatchet man who called on me this morning—maybe I could make him tell me who hired him. Somebody had hired him. Who?