THE HUNDRED-AND-THIRTIETH PAGE

I explained to the cops that I had once worked in the city, where I had encountered, and possibly crossed, any number of nut cases. Should My Editor have any direct proof of what I had done to him and his former company, I could be in far greater trouble than he. I did not want to discuss any of this with the authorities. It was getting touchy for a private person to go public. If I didn’t call in the police, I’d have no case to file with my insurance company.

The police interviewed me in the living room.

They had entered the room and immediately made rude comments about the fact that as far as the eye could see were books, and nothing but books. And they asked the same, tired old question that every panhandler and religious divine had asked with a rude chuckle on entrance: read all these books? yuk, yuk, yuk. And again, I patiently explained as before that a home library is a place for making ones reading selections. One was more likely to have unread, than read books, in the collection.

They also noted the scarcity of furniture, save the couch and reading lamp in the living room. The three of us sat on the couch. When by habit I used the dog as an ottoman, they hurried along their questions, scribbling faster and faster, promising a full investigation, and beat the traditional hasty retreat.