The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

pulled on the hammer. With the leverage this gave me, I slowly pulled the door free of the hinges. The bottom of the door shifted a little and rested on the ground. I kept pulling. Why was it still so hard to move? Then I realized that the outside hasp had to bend in order to move the door, because it was still locked. I saw a crack of light as the outside edge of the door moved past the jamb. So close. I placed the claws of the hammer on the outside surface of the door, and pulled hard.
    The door continued to move, making a rasping noise on the concrete floor. I pulled harder. Gradually I opened a space big enough for me to squeeze through. The second I thought I could make it, I went through the crack, scraping various parts of my body and tearing my jacket in the process. But I was free. I felt as if I had just gotten out of prison.

    CHAPTER 29
    I trotted, limping, up the lawn to the two-lane road, breathing in the cold morning air that smelled fresher than the air in the shelter. The sun was out, and it would warm the earth, but this process would take a while. Judging from the position of the sun, it had been up for some time. I wasn’t wearing my watch, and it was later than I thought.
    This added urgency to my mission, which was to warn everybody to watch out for Ed. I needed a telephone. There was nobody home at Veronica’s house. The nearest neighbor appeared to be about a quarter mile up the road. I started jogging in that direction, still limping.
    A car was coming, headed in the same direction. I debated trying to get a ride toward home. No, my first priority was to spread the alarm, and the house was close at hand. I let the car go by and turned into the driveway. I limped up to the door and rang the doorbell. At least I shouldn’t be waking anybody up.
    The door had a window in it. I could see an older woman approaching, wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing. I tried to look harmless. She opened the door a crack, and I said, “Good morning, ma’am. May I use your telephone to make a collect call? I…I’m kind of lost.”
    She closed the door to slip off a chain and then opened it again. I was thankful because I suddenly realized that I must look like a bum with my torn jacket. I also noticed for the first time that the knuckles of my right hand were bloody. I tried to keep them out of sight.
    The woman pointed to a telephone sitting on a windowsill nearby and said, “Check to see if someone else is using the phone before you dial. We’re on a party line.”
    I knew about party lines. The phone at the farm was on a party line. Our ring was one long. Any other combination of short and long rings was for somebody else. But that didn’t keep people from listening in on the conversations of others.
    I thanked the woman, lifted the receiver, and made sure there was a dial tone. Then I placed my finger on the zero of the rotary dial and spun it. I told the operator who answered that I wished to make a collect call and gave her Aunt Dorothy’s number. The phone rang half a dozen times, and the operator told me what I already knew—there was no answer.
    I asked the operator to try another number collect and gave her my home number. This produced the same result. My family must be at church. Whatever Ed was going to do, he apparently wanted the families together. My folks would be getting to the farm about noon. I didn’t know the Drucquers’ number, and I didn’t want to waste any more time trying to get their number using the inefficient telephone information system for long-distance calls. I didn’t know what I would tell Mr. and Mrs. Drucquer, anyway. “I think your son is a murderer.” How would they react to that?
    I could also call the local police, but then they would have to communicate with the Carter police. I suspected Carter had a minimum staff on duty Sunday mornings, and it might be a long time before they would actually do anything. I wasn’t sure what to tell them, either, that would inspire them to take action.
    I hung up and asked the woman, who had been watching me carefully from the other side of the room, what time it was.
    “Ten minutes past ten,” she said, indicating an ancient clock hanging on the wall that I had failed to see. “Are you all right? Can I get you something to eat?”
    Her mothering instincts had kicked in.
    I said, “Thank-you, but I need to get home.” I started for the door.
    “Where do you live?” she