The man beside him frowned. "A nut ..." he began, then sidled away. But now Joe whirled and ran from the building. There was only one thought in his mind. A crime had been committed, and it could only mean one thing—the Devil was loose!
Within ten minutes he raced up the steps to his own front door and hurled it open. In the living room he almost ran into Pearl, who uttered a low cry of alarm.
"Joe! What's wrong!"
"The Devil!" shouted Joe. "He's loose!"
"Why, Joe, whatever are you talking about. He's not loose. The door's nailed tight, just like it has been for two months. And besides, I've been hearing him down there all morning."
Joe ran into the kitchen, inspected the door. It was intact, and so were the nails. He ran out of the house and peered through the glass bricks of the basement windows, but could see nothing because of the wavy pattern in them that permitted only light, but not vision through them.
He came back into the house.
"What's wrong, Joe?" asked Pearl, her face pale.
"The President's been assassinated and that's what's wrong," said Joe heavily. "And if that isn't a crime, what is?"
Pearl ran to the television and turned it on. In a moment they were listening to almost hysterical voices, and watching equally hysterical scenes, as television cameras wheeled into position in the nation's capital and took shots of milling throngs, and announcers interviewed individuals who gave varied incoherent statements and expressions of grief that were obviously inspired only by the desire to be on television.