Squareless nodded, broodingly. “Twenty-four years, to be exact.” He reached in the pocket of his tweed coat and brought out a pipe and tobacco pouch. “Think your wife’ll mind if I smoke this? Or don’t you know her that well yet?”
“I think we can risk it,” said Tim. He waited a moment, but Squareless was silent. “I don’t mean to pry, sir,” said Tim, “but I’m a bit curious about this house to begin with, and I can’t help wondering why you should have boycotted its owner for twenty-four years.”
“Its owner?” repeated Squareless. “I’m its owner.”
Sybil had just entered the room with an amber pitcher and three glasses on a tray. “What!” she exclaimed. “You’re our landlord?”
“I’m not quite sure what my status is,” said Squareless. “You see, I was approached some time ago by this outfit that calls itself the British-American War Brides Association which was getting together a list of available houses in the state. Particularly along the coast here where a lot of furnished houses stand empty all winter. Most of ’em, of course, don’t have any heating, but even the few that do aren’t in any great demand. Too godforsaken for most people.”
“Quite,” murmured Sybil.
“Anyway,” went on Squareless, accepting a martini, “this bunch of old gals, who as I understand it were war brides themselves of an earlier day, got the idea that some of these houses might come in handy in the pinches, so they bulldozed a lot of sentimental old duffers like me into turning our houses over to ’em. Seemed sensible enough and it’s no trouble. The gals handle all the details. For instance, they arranged for a handy man to look alter the place. They take care of the rent, too. Which leaves me a landlord in name only.”
“Good,” said Sybil. “If you don’t mention the rent, I won’t mention the w.c. that doesn’t flush.”
“Agreed,” said Squareless.
“I suppose you let this house in summer, normally,” said Tim.
Squareless nodded, puffing on his pipe. “Both these houses have been in my family for a good many years,” he said. “As a matter of fact, this one was intended for me. But—well, things didn’t turn out that way. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. This house has some very unhappy memories for me. Let’s let it go at that.”
There was a moment of rather strained silence, then Sybil asked, “Were the arrangements—the arrangements for us coming here, I mean—made by a Mrs. Barrelforth?”
“Some such name,” said Squareless. “It was all done by correspondence. Whoever it was didn’t bother to tell me when to expect you.”
“Somebody expected us,” said Tim. “A Mr. Whittlebait.”
“Who?” said Squareless. “Oh, you mean the handy man. I suppose the old gals got into touch with him directly.”
“He must be a very good handy man,” said Sybil. “He had the house in apple-pie order.”
“Don’t think I know him,” said Squareless. “The fellow who looks after it in summer has gouged enough out of me to treat himself to Florida this winter. This Whittlebait’s probably a cousin or something. They’re all related to each other, these Pinies.”
“Pinies?” said Sybil. “What in the world are Pinies? Are they at the bottom of our garden?”
Squareless chuckled. “Well, in the South,” he said, “they’d call ’em crackers.”
“Oh, I see,” said Sybil. “Everything’s perfectly clear now.”
“I keep forgetting you’re a brand-new arrival,” said Squareless. “Pinies is the somewhat slighting name attached to a perfectly worthy group of citizens who are sensible enough to live back in the pine woods out of reach of hurricanes, tidal waves, and other phenomena of the jolly ocean front. They make a living mostly on the summer people, whose lawns they mow and whose hedges they clip and so on for sums sufficient to enable them to devote themselves to fishing and gunning in the winter. Although a few of them pick up the spare dollar by keeping an eye on the water-front houses through the off season. There’s nothing wrong with ’em. They’re a self-contained little bunch and they’re suspicious of reading and writing, but they’re perfectly honest and well-behaved.”
“We don’t have to worry about arrows quivering in the front door?” asked Sybil.
“No, my dear,” said Squareless. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the Pinies aren’t likely to provide you with any excitement.”
“But, Mr. Squareless,” said Sybil, “you must have thought somebody was capable of providing some excitement hereabouts tonight.”
Squareless looked at her from under his shaggy eyebrows. “True,” he said. “But I wasn’t thinking of Pinies. I was thinking of ghosts.”
Tim and Sybil both jumped. Squareless smiled and took his pipe out of his mouth. “There was a time,” he said, “when this wasn’t quite the peaceful little resort it now appears. During the sorry days of Prohibition, this little inlet was highly favored by the rum-running gentry for obvious reasons. For a while, in fact, this area was a headquarters for some very fancy operators. So when I speak of ghosts, I do so as they speak of Captain Kidd’s ghost in the West Indies.”
“You mean these people went on using the place after Repeal?” asked Tim.
“They tried to. I suppose they’d learned to like the sea air. At any rate, they went on running a casino down the shore a ways and for a few years they had quite an establishment. In fact, that’s why this side of the inlet, as you may have noticed, has gone downhill, at least from the point of view of the other side. An amusement pier was built, and all sorts of claptrap concessions were strung along the boardwalk, and cheap boarding-houses went up—all designed to attract what the other side considers an undesirable element. I personally consider all summer people undesirable, but I can see how the solid burghers of the one side were a little upset by the various skin-game operators and gamblers and occasional gangsters that moved in on the other.”
“Is that why you live on the respectable side?” asked Sybil.
“Not entirely,” said Squareless.
“I only wondered,” said Sybil, “if you disapproved of gambling.”
“Well, no,” said Squareless, “not in general. I disapprove of the sort of gambling that went on in that casino, which, I am happy to add, burned down some time before the war. But I’ve done a good deal of friendly gambling in my day.”
“What I am leading up to,” said Sybil, “is, do you play bridge?”
“I used to play a great deal of bridge,” replied Squareless. “Rather good at it, I was, too. But I haven’t played much since—since I became a recluse.” He smiled. “You can’t be a recluse and play bridge.”
“But wouldn’t you play with us?” pleaded Sybil. “If we could find a fourth?”
“A fourth?” said Squareless. “Ay, there’s the rub.”
“As distinct from the rubber,” said Tim.
“Oh, there must be a fourth around somewhere,” said Sybil impatiently. “After all, this isn’t the Fiji Islands.”
“I’m afraid it might as well be,” said Squareless.
“I can’t believe it.”
“After all, dear,” said Tim, “if Mr. Squareless who has lived here all his life doesn’t know of a fourth, you’re hardly likely to dig one up in a couple of days.”
“We’ll see,” said Sybil.
“Incidentally,” said Squareless, “I haven’t exactly lived here all my life. Please don’t