Free The Shrinking Man by Richard Matheson Page B

again.
    “Just walking home,” Scott said.
    “Have you far to go?” An intelligent voice, somewhat thickened. Scott saw the man’s head bobbing. So much the better, he thought.
    “Just to the next town,” he said. “Could you give me a ride, mister?” Deliberately he raised the already raised pitch of his voice.
    “Certainly, my boy, certainly,” the man said. “Just climb aboard and it’s bon-voy-
age
for you and me and Plymouth, vintage fifty-five.” His head drew in like that of a startled turtle. It disappeared into the shell of his car.
    “Thanks, mister.” It was a form of masochism, Scott knew, this playing the role of boy to its very hilt. He stood outside the car until the heavy-set man had pushed up awkwardly and was sitting behind the steering wheel again. Then he slid onto the seat.
    “Just sit right here, my boy, just—Caution!”
    Scott jumped up as he sat on the man’s thick hand. The man drew it away, held it before his eyes.
    “You have injured the member, my boy,” he said. “Wreaked havoc to the knuckles. Eh?” the man’s chuckle was liquid, as if it came up through a throatful of water.
    Scott’s smile was nervously automatic as he sat down again. The car reeked of whisky and cigar smoke. He coughed into his hand.
    “Anchors, so be it, Od’s blood, aweigh,” the man declared. He tapped down the shift to drive position and the car jerked a little, then rolled forward.
“Fermez la porte
, dear boy,
fermez la
goddam
porte
.”
    “I have,” Scott told him.
    The man looked over as if he were delighted. “You understand French, my boy. An excellent boy, a most seemly boy. Your health, sir.”
    Scott smiled thinly to himself. He wished he were drunk too. But a whole afternoon drinking in a darkened bar-room booth had done nothing to him at all.
    “You reside in this humid land, my boy?” the heavy man asked. He began slapping himself about the chest.
    “In the next town,” Scott said.
    “In the next town, the following city,” the man said, still slapping at himself. “In the adjacent village, the juxtaposed hamlet. Ah,
Hamlet
. To be or not to be, that is the—God damn it’s a match. My kingdom for a match!” He belched. It was like a drawn-out leopard growl.
    “Use the dashboard lighter,” Scott said, hoping to get both of the man’s unsteady hands back on the wheel.
    The man looked over, apparently astounded. “A brilliant boy,” he said. “An analytic fellow. By God, I love an analytic fellow.” His bubbly chuckle rippled in the stale-smelling car.
“Mon dieu
.”
    Scott tensed suddenly as the heavy man leaned over, ignoring the highway. The man knocked in the lighter, then straightened up again, his shoulder brushing Scott’s.
    “So you live in the next town,
mon cher,”
he said. “This is… fascinating news.” Another leopard-growl belch. “Dinner with old Vincent,” said the man. “Old Vincent.” The sound that came from his throat might have indicated amusement. It might, as well, have indicated the onset of strangulation. “Old Vincent,” said the heavy man sadly.
    The cigarette lighter popped out and he snatched it from its electriccavity. Scott glanced aside as the man relit his dark-tipped cigar.
    The man’s head was leonine beneath the wide-brimmed fedora. Glows of light washed his face. Scott saw bushy eyebrows like awnings over the man’s darkly glittering eyes. He saw a puffy-nostriled nose, a long, thick-lipped mouth. It was the face of a sly boy peering out through rolls of dough.
    Clouds of smoke obscured the face. “A most seemly boy, Od’s bodkins,” said the man. He missed the dashboard opening and the lighter thumped on the floor boards. “God’s hooks!” The man doubled over. The car veered wildly.
    “I’ll get it,” Scott said quickly. “Look out!”
    The man put the car back in its proper lane. He patted Scott’s head with a spongy palm. “A child of most excellent virtues,” he slurred. “As I have always