Late in the afternoon, as the sky grew gray and clouded, the phone rang. I tensed. Halmer woke up, fumbled for the desk-lamp switch, uncradled the phone.
"Yes?" he said sleepily, petulantly. "Oh, hello, Evans...." He sat erect, his voice becoming polite, ingratiating.
Evans was his editor to whom he'd given the story I'd typed last night.
"I don't quite follow you, old boy ..." Halmer stammered.
Now Evans' angry voice was loud and I could hear it, too. "No? Well, I just wanted to tell you that 'The Brave Die Hard' is just as good today as when it was first written forty years ago!"
I thought Halmer would have a stroke. "But how—why—what makes you suspect—" now his voice was a shriek—"it's not the same story! It couldn't be! I wrote that story from scratch!"
"Then you didn't scratch hard enough," the phone sneered. "We found the original by checking through bound volumes in the public library. When the word gets around, you'll be skunk bait in the publishing business. And, incidentally, we've stopped payment on your check."
I almost felt sorry for the poor fool.
"But you can't do this to me!" Halmer screamed. "It's a miserable coincidence! I challenge you to prove—"