back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and wheel-
ing it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done okay.
Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he liked the
idea of repairing the foundations himself!
It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying
commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and
packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks
and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red
light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him; he'd
arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the records of the day,
maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove slowly past the small
square of green in the center of the street, the town park. There were no
parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. He cursed
under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again he passed the little
square of green with its lonely drinking fountain and bench and single
lamppost.
From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle,
swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled
down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of some
kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the square.
Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park
and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a dis-
play it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he swallowed
uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.
It was a body. A human body.
"Look at it!" Loyce snapped. "Come on out here!"
Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe coat
with dignity. "This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy standing
there."
"See it?" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up
against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. "There it is.
