2:13 a.m. —Time Versus Death
O’Brian stirred a bit restlessly in his chair by the hall door and yawned; then he looked at his watch. It was almost a quarter past two. He began to enumerate the various things he would give for a good cup of strong black coffee, and his shirt headed the list. Or, if not coffee, some excitement to keep him awake.
The telephone jangled.
He stood up abruptly and went to the instrument. It would be, he imagined, Lieutenant Valcour calling again to find out if everything was all right. Well, everything was.
O’Brian lifted the receiver and said, “Hello!”
No one answered him, and there wasn’t any sound from the other end of the line, unless you could call a sort of thumping noise and a faint tinkle that might have been breaking glass a sound.
“Hello!” O’Brian said again.
The line wasn’t dead, because there wasn’t that peculiar burring one hears when the connection is broken. The receiver of the phone at the other end was certainly off the hook. O’Brian singled out one of the patron saints of Ireland and wanted to know, most emphatically, just what sort of fun and foustie was being made of him.
“Hello!” He tried it again.
There was a click. The burring sound started. The line was dead. Whoever had been calling from the other end had hung up.