The Ghost of a Model T and Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

and hung onto that expensive summer place. Maybe, Packer thought, that was the way to do it these days; maybe if you could fool someone into thinking you were big, you might have a better chance of getting into something big. Maybe that was the way it worked, but he didn’t know.
    He stopped in the lobby to pick up his mail, hoping there might be a package from PugAlNash. In the excitement of leaving for the weekend, he’d forgotten to take along the box of leaf and three days without it had impressed upon him how much he had come to rely upon it. Remembering how low his supply was getting he became a little jittery to think that more might not be forthcoming.
    There was a batch of letters, but no box from Pug.
    And he might have known, he told himself, that there wouldn’t be, for the box never came until he was entirely out. At first, he recalled, he wondered by what prophetic insight Pug might have known when the leaf was gone, how he could have gauged the shipping time to have it arrive exactly when there was need of it. By now he no longer thought about it, for it was one of those unbelievable things it does no good to think about.
    â€œGlad to have you back,” the clerk told him cheerfully. “You had a good weekend, Mr. Packer?”
    â€œTolerable,” growled Packer, grumpily, heading for the lift.
    Before he reached it, he was apprehended by Elmer Lang, the manager of the building.
    â€œMr. Packer,” he whinnied, “I’d like to talk to you.”
    â€œWell, go ahead and talk.”
    â€œIt’s about the mice, Mr. Packer.”
    â€œWhat mice?”
    â€œMrs. Foshay tells me there are mice in your apartment.”
    Packer drew himself up to the fullness of his rather dumpy height.
    â€œThey are your mice, Lang,” he said. “You get rid of them.”
    Lang wrung his hands. “But how can I, Mr. Packer? It’s the way you keep your place. All that litter in there. You’ve got to clean it up.”
    â€œThat litter, I’ll have you know, sir, is probably one of the most unique stamp collections in the entire galaxy. I’ve gotten behind a little in keeping it together, true, but I will not have you call it litter.”
    â€œI could have Miles, the caretaker, help you get it straightened out.”
    â€œI tell you, sir,” said Packer, “the only one who could help me is one trained in philately. Does your caretaker happen to be –”
    â€œBut, Mr. Packer,” Lang pleaded, “all that paper and all those boxes are nesting places for them. I can do nothing about the mice unless I can get in there and get some of it cleared away.”
    â€œCleared away!” exploded Packer. “Do you realize, sir, what you are talking of? Somewhere hidden in that vast stock of material, is a certain cover—to you, sir, an envelope with stamps and postmarks on it—for which I have been offered a quarter million dollars if I ever turn it up. And that is one small piece of all the material I have there. I ask you, Lang, is that the sort of stuff that you clear away?”
    â€œBut, Mr. Packer, I cannot allow it to go on. I must insist –”
    The lift arrived and Packer stalked into it haughtily, leaving the manager standing in the lobby, twisting at his hands.
    Packer whuffled his mustache at the operator.
    â€œBusybody,” he said.
    â€œWhat was that, sir?”
    â€œMrs. Foshay, my man. She’s a busybody.”
    â€œI do believe,” said the operator judiciously, “that you may be entirely right.”
    Packer hoped the corridor would be empty and it was. He unlocked his door and stepped inside.
    A bubbling noise stopped him in his tracks.
    He stood listening, unbelieving, just a little frightened.
    The bubbling noise went on and on.
    He stepped cautiously out into the room and as he did he saw it.
    The wastebasket beside the desk was full of a bubbling yellow stuff that in several places