“Hello, Herb,” Hollander said softly.
Endicott’s voice was so weak that it scarcely carried to Hollander’s ears. “Who is it?” he said. “What …” the voice dribbled off.
“It’s your friend, Herb.”
Sullen, petulant lines clung suddenly to Endicott’s mouth, making the thickish lips look almost viciously weak. He made a curious noise that might have been intended for a laugh.
“Have no friend.” The voice was the ghost of dead whispers.
“What happened to you, Herb?”
“Happened?” Endicott’s eyes made a strong effort to get through the fogs shrouding them. “Something did happen—I want the police—I’ll teach that rotten—that—”
There wasn’t any sound for a while.
“You’ll teach whom, Herb?”
Endicott was staring very fixedly up at Hollander now. And Hollander’s right hand, the fingers of which were unnaturally rigid, was gently moving to that spot on the spread which would lie above Endicott’s heart.
“Who is it you’re going to teach, Herb?” Hollander said again.
The mists were clearing, and Endicott could see things almost plainly. He fixed Hollander’s face into definite focus. “God damn you,” he said, “for a—”
“Now, now, Herb, that isn’t nice, and you don’t know what you’re saying.”