Miranda moved to the bookcases on the near side of the fireplace. Her domain; John had never been much of a reader, despite her best efforts. Plato, Thomas Aquinas, Shakespeare, Chaucer. Scott, Dickens, Hawthorne, the Brontë sisters, Stevenson. Browning and Byron and Eliot and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Nearly a dozen volumes of fiction and nonfiction by Chesterton, always her favorite. Oscar Wilde, so amusing and ironic—
The phone was ringing.
She may have heard the first ring, or the bell may have sounded two or three times before she grew aware of it; she wasn't quite sure. She went to answer it.
"Miranda, dear, how are you?"
"Oh, hello, Patrice."
"You sound a bit melancholy this morning. Is everything all right?"
"Yes. You mustn't worry about me."
"But I do. You know I do."
Miranda knew it all too well. Patrice was one of her oldest friends, but their closeness was neither deep nor confiding. Patrice's life had been one long, smooth sail, empty of tragedy of any kind; she had never needed anyone outside her immediate family. And ever since Miranda's own tragic loss, Patrice's friendship and concern had been tinged with thinly concealed pity.
"I called to invite you to lunch tomorrow," Patrice said. "You need to get out more, and lunch at the Shady Grove Inn is just the ticket. My treat."
"That's good of you, but I don't believe I'll be able to accept."
"Other plans, dear?"
"I. . . . may not be here tomorrow."
"Oh? Going away somewhere?"
"Possibly. It's not quite certain yet."
"May I ask where and with whom?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Of course, I understand. But talking about something in advance really doesn't prevent it from happening, you know."
"It can," Miranda said. "Sometimes it can."
"Well, you must tell me all about it afterward."
"It won't be a secret, Patrice. I can promise you that."
They talked a few minutes longer. Or rather, Patrice talked, mostly about her grandchildren. Miranda only half listened. It seemed quite cold in the house now, despite the fact that she had turned up the heat when she came downstairs. Imagination? No, she could hear the wind in the eaves, gusting more strongly than before, and when that happened the house always felt drafty.
When Patrice finally said goodbye, Miranda returned to the living room and put on the gas-log flame in the fireplace. She sat in front of it with a copy of Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest open on her lap and tried to read. She couldn't seem to concentrate. I wish I had something else to do, she thought, something useful or important.
Well, she thought then, there is something, isn't there? Out in the barn?
But she was not ready to go out there yet. Not just yet. She picked up Wilde and tried again to focus on his words.
She was dozing when the doorbell rang. Dreaming about something pleasant, something to do with John and their honeymoon in the Caribbean, but the jarring sound of the bell drove it away. A visitor? She so seldom had visitors these days. The prospect hurried her steps to the door.
But it wasn't a visitor; it was Dwayne, the mailman, on the porch outside. "Morning, Miz Halliday," he said. "More mail than usual today so I thought I'd bring it up, save you the trouble."
"That was good of you, Dwayne."
"Catalogues, mostly. Not even the end of October and already we got piles of Christmas catalogues. Seems like they start sending 'em out earlier every year."
"Yes, it does."
He handed over the thick stack, being cautious about it because he knew of her arthritis. "You going out today, Miz Halliday?"
"I may, yes. Why do you ask?"
"Well, it's pretty cold out. Wind's got ice in it, first breath of winter. Real pneumonia weather. Better bundle up warm if you do go out."
"I will, thank you."
He wished her a good morning and left her alone again.
Miranda sifted through her mail. No personal letters, of course. Just two bills and three solicitations, one of the solicitations addressed to "Maranda Holiday." She laid the bills, unopened, on the kitchen table, put the solicitations in the trash and the catalogues in the recycle box.
Except for the wind, the house was very quiet.
And still unwarm.
And so empty.
In her sewing room, she removed the letter—three pages, carefully folded—from the bottom drawer of her desk. She had written it quite a long time ago, but she could have quoted it verbatim. The wind gusted noisily as she started out with it, rattling shingles and shutters, and she remembered what Dwayne had said about bundling up warm. The front hall closet yielded her heaviest wool coat and a pair of fleece-lined gloves. She had the coat over her shoulders, the letter tucked into one of the pockets, when the phone rang again.
"Mrs. Halliday? This is Sally Boyer?"
"Yes, Mrs. Boyer."
"I wonder if I could ask a big favor? I know it's short notice and I haven't been in touch in a while, but if you could help us out I'd really appreciate it?" Mrs. Boyer was one of those individuals who turn statements into questions by a rising interrogative inflection on the last few words of a sentence. More than once Miranda had been tempted to help her correct this irritating habit, but it would have been impolite to bring it up herself.
"What is the favor?"
"Could you babysit for us tonight? My husband has a business dinner, a client and his wife from Los Angeles who showed up without any advance warning? Well, he thinks it's important for me to join them and our regular sitter has band practice tonight and so I thought you. . . ?"
"I'm afraid I have another commitment," Miranda said firmly.
"You do? You couldn't possibly break it?"
"I don't see how I can, now."
"But I thought you, of all people. . . I mean. . ."
"Yes, Mrs. Boyer, I understand. And I'm sorry."
"I don't know who else to call," Mrs. Boyer said. "Can you think of anyone? You must know someone, some other elder . . . some other person?"
"I don't know anyone," Miranda said. "No one at all."
She said goodbye and replaced the receiver. She buttoned her coat, worked her gnarled fingers into the gloves, then crossed the rear porch and stepped outside.
The wind was blustery and very cold, but she didn't hurry. It would not do to hurry at a time like this. She walked at a steady, measured pace across the leaf-strewn yard to the barn.
The front half was mostly a dusty catchall storage area, as it had been when John was alive. On the right side was a cleared section just large enough for her car; the remaining floor space was packed with trunks, boxes, discarded appliances, gardening equipment, and the like. Some of the cartons had been there for so long Miranda no longer had any idea what they contained. She made her way along the passenger side of the car to the doorway in the center partition; opened it and passed through into John's workshop.
His last few woodworking projects, finished and unfinished, were bulky mounds under the dustcloths she had placed over them. His workbench, lathe, table saws, and such were also shrouded. The bench was where the coiled rope lay, but Miranda did not go in that direction. Nor did she glance up at the ceiling beam in the shadows above.
At the workshop's far end, more shadows crowded the alcove where John had kept his cot and tiny refrigerator. On those long ago summer nights when he had been deep into one of his projects, he had slept out here to avoid disturbing her. Now there was nothing inside the alcove, only the bare wood floor over packed earth.
Miranda knelt and raised the cunningly hidden hinged section. Underneath, the flowers she had placed there last week were already withered and crumbling, dust and petals scattered across the pair of old graves.
So many years since she'd found John and Moira together here that night. So many years since the strangest whim had seized her and she'd done what she felt she must—shot them both with one of John's handguns, quick
ly and efficiently, for no one should have to suffer when the time came. So many years since she had, in her supremely capable fashion, dug for each of them a final resting place and then, using the woodworking skills John had taught her, rebuilt the flooring to cover the graves.
No one had ever suspected. John Halliday had run off with his wife's beautiful younger sister—that was what everyone believed. Such a terrible tragedy for poor Miranda, they all said. But no one except her could know how terrible it really was to be left all alone with nobody to love except a little dog and fewer and fewer ways in which to atone for her sin.
It would be quite a shock when the citizens of Shady Grove learned the truth. And learn it they must; she had kept the secret too long and she could not carry it with her to her own grave—in the words of the poet Andrew Marvell, that "fine and private place." She had explained everything in the three-page letter; it would be her final act of atonement.
John and Moira knew all about the rope and the letter. Over and over she had told them that one day she must again do what she felt was necessary. Yet they were so reluctant to let her go. She could feel their reluctance now. Selfish. Even in death, they cared only for themselves.
"John," she said, "this is the proper day. Can't you understand how I feel?"
The wind mourned outside.
"Moira? We've hurt each other enough. Isn't it time we were together again?"
The last of the flowers suddenly trembled and broke apart. The earth seemed to tremble, too, as if there were stirrings within. It was only a draft caused by the wind, she knew it could be nothing else, yet it was as if they had caused it. As if they were beseeching and mocking her, saying quite clearly: "You can't leave us, Miranda. Who will tend to us once you're gone? Who will bring flowers and keep the weeds from growing up around us?
"We need you, Miranda. You know that, don't you?"
She did not argue; it never did any good to argue. She sighed and got slowly to her feet. "After all," she said, "I think I will not hang myself today."
She lowered the hinged section, thinking that she must buy fresh flowers to replace the withered ones because it was autumn and there were none left in the garden. But before she called the florist, she would ring up Mrs. Boyer and tell her she would be able to babysit tonight after all.
The Man Who Collected "The Shadow"
Mr. Theodore Conway was a nostalgist, a collector of memorabilia, a dweller in the uncomplicated days of his adolescence when radio, movie serials, and pulp magazines were the ruling forms of entertainment and super-heroes were the idols of American youth.
At forty-three, he resided alone in a modest apartment on Manhattan's Lower East Side, where he commuted daily by subway to his position of file clerk in the archives of Baylor, Baylor, Leeds and Wadsworth, a respected probate law firm. He was short and balding and very plump and very nondescript; he did not indulge in any of the vices, major or minor; he had no friends to speak of, and neither a wife nor, euphemistically or otherwise, a girlfriend. (In point of fact, Mr. Conway was that rarest of individuals, an adult male virgin.) He did not own a television set, did not attend the theater or movies. His one and only hobby, his single source of pleasure, his sole purpose in life, was the accumulation of nostalgia in general—and nostalgia pertaining to that most inimitable of all super-heroes, The Shadow, in particular.
Ah! The Shadow! Mr. Conway idolized Lamont Cranston, loved Margo Lane as he could never love any living woman. Nothing set his blood to racing quite so quickly as The Shadow on the scent of an evildoer, utilizing the Power that, as Cranston, he had learned in the Orient—the Power to cloud men's minds so that they could not see him. Nothing gave Mr. Conway more pleasure than listening to the haunting voice of Orson Welles, capturing The Shadow as no other had over the air; or reading Maxwell Grant's daring accounts in The Shadow Magazine; or paging through one of the starkly drawn Shadow comic books. Nothing filled him with as much delicious anticipation as the words spoken by his hero at the beginning of each radio adventure: Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows . . . and the eerie, bloodcurdling laugh that followed it. Nothing filled him with as much security as, when each case was closed, this ace among aces saying words of warning to criminals everywhere: The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. The Shadow knows!
Mr. Conway had begun collecting nostalgia in 1946, starting with a wide range of pulp magazines. (He now had well over ten thousand issues of Wu Fang, G-8 and his Battle Aces, Black Mask, Weird Tales, Doe Savage, and two hundred others.) Then he had gone on to comic books and comic strips, to premiums of every kind and description—decoders and secret compartment belts and message flashlights and spy rings and secret pens that wrote in invisible ink. In the 1970s he had begun to accumulate tapes of such radio shows as Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy and Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. But while he amassed all of these eagerly, he pursued the mystique of The Shadow with a fervor that bordered on the fanatical.
He haunted secondhand bookshops and junk shops, pored over advertisements in newspapers and magazines and collectors' sheets, wrote letters, made telephone calls, spent every penny of his salary that did not go for bare essentials. And at long last he succeeded where no other nostalgist had even come close to succeeding. He accomplished a remarkable, an almost superhuman feat.
He collected the complete Shadow.
There was absolutely nothing produced about his hero—not a written word, not a spoken sentence, not a drawing or gadget—that Mr. Conway did not own.
The final item, the one that had eluded him for so many years, came into his possession on a Saturday evening in late June. He had gone into a tenement area of Manhattan, near the East River, to purchase from a private individual a rare cartoon strip of Terry and the Pirates. With the strip carefully tucked into his coat pocket, he was on his way back to the subway when he chanced upon a small neighborhood bookshop in the basement of a crumbling brownstone. It was still open, and unfamiliar to him, and so he entered and began to browse. And on one of the cluttered tables at the rear—there it was.
The October 1931 issue of The Shadow Magazine.
Mr. Conway emitted a small, ecstatic cry. Caught up the magazine in trembling hands, stared at it with disbelieving eyes, opened it tenderly, read the contents page and the date, ran sweat-slick fingers over the rough, grainy pulp paper. Near-mint condition. Spine undamaged. Colors unfaded. And the price—
Fifty cents.
Fifty cents!
Tears of joy rolled unabashedly down Mr. Conway's cheeks as he carried this treasure to the elderly proprietor. The bookseller gave him a strange look, shrugged, and accepted two quarters from Mr. Conway without a word. Two quarters, fifty cents. And Mr. Conway had been prepared to pay hundreds...
As he went out into the gathering darkness—it was almost nine by this time—he could scarcely believe that he had finally done it, that he now possessed the total word, picture, and voice exploits of the most awesome master crime fighter of them all. His brain reeled. The Shadow was his now; Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane (beautiful Margo!)—his, all his, his alone.
Instead of proceeding to the subway, Mr. Conway impulsively entered a small diner not far from the bookshop and ordered a cup of coffee. Then, once again, he opened the magazine. He had previously read a reprint of the novel by Maxwell Grant—The Shadow Laughs—but that was not the same as reading the original, no indeed. He plunged into the story again, savoring each line, each page, the mounting suspense, the seemingly inescapable traps laid to eliminate The Shadow by archvillains Isaac Coffran and Birdie Crull, the smashing of their insidious counterfeiting plot: justice triumphant. The weed of crime bears bitter fruit, crime does not pay.
So engrossed was Mr. Conway that he lost all track of time. When at last he closed the magazine he was startled to note that except for the counterman, the diner was deserted. It had been nearly full when he entered. He looked at his wristwatch, and his mouth dropped open in a
mazement. Good heavens! It was past midnight!
Mr. Conway scrambled out of the booth and hurriedly left the diner. Outside, apprehension seized him. The streets were dark and deserted—ominous, forbidding.
He looked up and down without seeing any sign of life. It was four blocks to the nearest subway entrance—a short walk in daylight but now it was almost the dead of night. Mr. Conway shivered in the cool night breeze. He had never liked the night, its sounds and smells, its hidden dangers. There were stories in the papers every morning of muggers and thieves on the prowl. .
He took a deep breath, summoning courage. Four blocks. Well, that really wasn't very far, only a matter of minutes if he walked swiftly. And swift was his pace as he started along the darkened sidewalk.
No cars passed; no one appeared on foot. The hollow echoes of his footfalls were the only sounds. And yet Mr. Conway's heart was pounding wildly by the time he had gone two blocks.
He was halfway through the third block when he heard the muffled explosions.
He stopped, the hairs on his neck prickling, a tremor of fear coursing through him. There was an alley on his left; the reports had come from that direction. Gunshots? He was certain that was what they'd been—and even more certain that they meant danger, sudden death. Run! he thought. And yet, though he was poised for flight, he did not run. He peered into the alley, saw a thin light at its far end.
Run, run! But instead he entered the alley, moving slowly, feeling his way along. What am I doing? I shouldn't be here! But still he continued forward, approaching the narrow funnel of light. It came from inside a partly open door to the building on his right. Mr. Conway put out a hand and eased the door open wider, peered into what looked to be a warehouse. The thudding of his heart seemed as loud as a drum roll as he stepped over the threshold.
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