He thumbed through the papers lethargically, and his eye was caught by the obituary page. He remembered Bauer’s counsel about the funeral; he rose from the table and forced himself to call the Walbridge Mortuary. As the sergeant had predicted, their price was very reasonable, and they agreed, with suspicious readiness, to Conway’s request for no publicity. They promised to let him know when the remains would be released, adding that the police were apt to take their time in these cases. Conway hung up, reflecting that only one more unpleasant task had to be faced: the funeral service. He hoped it might be soon.
He went upstairs then, took some aspirin, and lay down. He dozed fitfully, and was awakened by the sound of the doorbell. It did not surprise him; he knew who would be at the door, and he knew the greeting he would hear when he opened it. He was right on both counts.
“I was right near here so I thought I’d drop in and — say, you look terrible. What’s the matter?”
“What?” Conway’s hand automatically went to his face. “Oh — I guess it’s because I haven’t shaved yet. I finally got a little sleep this morning — I was awake most of the night.” Let’s see what he can make of that, Conway thought.
“That reminds me, I promised to tell you what to do about that.”
“So you did.”
“Well, here it is. When you can’t sleep, it’s generally because you’re thinking about something that’s keeping you awake. Unless it’s something you ate, of course. Okay, so here’s what you got to do: stop thinking about it. That’s all there is to it.”
“I see. What do I think about?”
“Nothing. Just absolutely nothing at all. It’s as simple as that. Right? Right.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Conway said.