The phone at the other end rang three times, then a voice said, "Hello?"
It was the voice of the woman. I didn't say anything.
"Who is it?" she said. Then she chuckled. "I know who it is. You don't need to worry, Ben. He isn't home. It is you, isn't it Ben?"
I hung up. Her voice had been unreal. Even her words. The pattern surrounding this Orville Snyder was too trite and too unbelievable. A wife—or was this woman his wife?—who used the grocery money to get drunk, and who consorted with men named Ben, and stupidly gave herself away over the phone.
I went back to my bench again and studied the identifications in the wallet. One of them had fingerprints on it. I didn't know much about fingerprints. Still....
I lit a bunsen burner and adjusted it until it was giving off smoke. I let a film of black coat a piece of glass. When it was safely cool I touched it with my right index finger and placed my fingerprint on a sheet of paper.
In the desk I found a magnifying glass. With it I examined my print and that on the identification, for the right index finger. In every respect they seemed identical.
I laid the magnifying glass down slowly. Things were adding up. Things that couldn't be denied. The driver's license was a photostat copy and seemed authentic. The government identification card with the fingerprints on it was encased between sheets of plastic that sealed it. The Rexlo identification was on a printed card. And there was a hospital card giving blood type.
All this added up to my being Orville Snyder. I hadn't ever heard the name before. I'd never seen that woman before. I was Fred Martin. I was as certain of that as I could ever be of anything.
But I had to be Orville Snyder. I couldn't get out of it. The fingerprint, the man next door who had called me Orville, the woman who ranted at me as only a wife of that type can rant to a man.