From the Corner of His Eye

gathered an electric razor and toiletries. He added these to the suitcases.
        After carrying the two pieces of luggage to the car in the garage, he returned to the study. He sat at the desk and examined the contents of the drawers, then turned to the file cabinet.
        He wasn't entirely sure what all he hoped to find. Perhaps an envelope or a cash box with folding money, which a fleeing murderer would surely pause to take with him. Suspicions might be raised if he left it behind. Perhaps a savings-account passbook.
        In the first drawer, he discovered an address book. Logically, Vanadium would have taken this with him, even if on the lam from a murder rap, so Junior tucked it in his jacket pocket.
        When his search of the desk drawers was only half completed, the telephone rang-not the usual strident bell, but a modulated electronic brrrrr. He had no intention of answering it.
        The second ring was followed by a click, and then a familiar droning voice said, "Hello. I'm Thomas Vanadium-"
        Like a spring-loaded novelty snake erupting from a can, Junior exploded up from the chair, nearly knocking it over.
        "--but I am not here right now. "
        Swinging toward the open door, he saw that the dead detective was true to his word: He wasn't here.
        The voice continued, issuing from a device that stood on the desk beside the phone. "Please don't bang up. This is a telephone answering machine Leave a message after you bear the tone, and I will return your call later "
        The word Ansaphone was imprinted on the black plastic casing of the machine.
        Junior had heard of this invention, but until now he'd never seen one. He supposed that an obsessive like Vanadium might go to any lengths, including this exotic technology, to avoid missing an important call.
        The tone sounded, as promised, and a man's voice spoke from the box: "It's Max. You're psychic. I found the hospital here. Poor kid bad a cerebral hemorrhage, arising from a hyperensive crisis caused by… eclampsia, I think it is. Baby survived. Call me, huh?"
        Max hung up. The Ansaphone made a series of small robot-mouse noises and then fell silent.
        Amazing.
        Junior was tempted to experiment with the controls. Maybe other messages were recorded on the machine. Listening to them would be delicious-even if every one of them turned out to be as meaningless to him as Max's-a little like browsing through a stranger's diary.
        Finding nothing more of interest in the study, he considered searching the rest of the house.
        The night was in flight, however, and he had a lot to do before it swooped straight into morning.
        Leave the lamps burning, the door unlocked. A murderer, frantic to vanish while the victim remained undiscovered, wouldn't be worried about the cost of electricity or about protecting against burglary.
        Junior drove boldly away. Zedd counseled boldness.
        Because he kept imagining the stealthy sounds of a dead cop rising in vengeance behind him, Junior switched on the radio. He tuned in a station featuring a Top 40 countdown.
        The deejay announced song number four for the week: the Beatles' "She's a Woman." The Fab Four filled the Studebaker with music.
        Everyone thought the moptops were the coolest thing ever-ever but to Junior, their music was just all right. He wasn't stirred to sing along, and he didn't find their stuff particularly danceable.
        He was a patriotic guy, and he preferred American rock to the British brand. He had nothing against the English, no prejudices against people of any nationality. Nevertheless, he believed that the American Top 40 ought to feature American music exclusively.
        Crossing Spruce Hills with John, Paul, George, Ringo, and dead Thomas, Junior headed back toward Victoria's place, where Sinatra was no longer singing.
        Number three on the charts was "Mr. Lonely," by Bobby Vinton, an American talent from Canonsburg, Pennsylvania. Junior sang along.
        He cruised past the Bressler residence without slowing.
        By this time, Vinton had finished, commercials had run, and the number-two song had started: "Come See About Me," by the Supremes.
        More good American music. The Supremes were Negroes, sure, but Junior was not a bigot. Indeed, he had once made passionate love to a Negro girl.
        Harmonizing with Diana Ross, Mary Wilson, and