For a while Paul practically lived at the New York Public Library, in the special section reserved for local genealogical research. With the help of Sybil, and using every free moment at his disposal, including weekends, he tried to discover additional evidence linking Don Pedro of Henniker, New Hampshire, with the short mention of the pirate treasure on Long Island.
However much he read, he could discover nothing further. All he had to go on was the small amount of information he already had. He could not spend more time on his search without endangering his position with the advertising agency. Already his boss was wondering why he was coming in late and looking so haggard in the morning. Giving him a knowing smile and suggesting it was his lovemaking that had caused this, got Paul off the hook for a while. But he realized that he could not go on much longer without risking his job.
“Enough is enough,” he said one Saturday afternoon and took Sybil by the arm and walked out of the library, vowing not to return for a long, long time. Sybil was glad to hear it because she had become pretty bored with all this. If she had not loved Paul as much as she did, she would have walked out on the situation long before this. But, on the other hand, she had been swept up in the adventure of searching for the treasure, elusive though it might be. When Paul decided to stop looking for additional documents and get down to the search itself, she sighed with relief. Direct action was more her style.
“What do you intend to do about it?” she asked.
“Well,” he replied, “this Amityville area isn’t all that large. I think we should start by going out there tomorrow.”
No sooner said than done. The couple arrived in Amityville, Long Island, where they visited the library and discovered that there had indeed been an Indian burial ground in the area. Paul and Sybil were intrigued to hear that it was believed to be on or near the site of 112 Ocean Avenue, the place where all those murders had happened, back in 1974.
Next, the couple tried to gather information from the “friendly townspeople.” They were amazed to find that their questions produced nothing but closed mouths at the very mention of anything strange or supernatural connected with that house. It appeared that the townspeople simply did not wish to acknowledge the existence of anything unusual in their midst. Finally, with some prodding and a five-dollar bill, he managed to elicit some information from the local bartender.
“‘Tis like this,” the man said with a heavy Irish brogue. “They all know about it but no one wants to own up to it. The house, you know, was the scene of all that mayhem, and the townspeople don’t like it. No, they don’t like it one bit.”
“I know that,” Paul replied calmly, “but I would like to research it. I am writing a thesis,” he added, when the bartender looked at him suspiciously. Was he perhaps one of those nosy journalists trying to write another sensational story for the Sunday sections, bringing a lot of unwanted tourists? the barkeep wondered. But this man did not look like a journalist.
“No,” he replied, “I suppose there is no harm in that. But you are on your own sir. I cannot help you.” And with that, five-dollar bill or not, the barkeep turned and tended to other customers, leaving Paul and Sybil no alternative but to leave.
It wasn’t difficult to find the house and they drove up to it, simply following a map.
There it was, 112 Ocean Avenue. They parked the car and got out. Paul rang the bell. He kept on trying for several minutes, but no one came to answer.
“I suppose they think we are curious tourists,” Paul finally said with a shrug. “I can’t say I blame them.”
Nothing stirred inside the house, so they got back into the car and drove to the nearest real estate office. The sigh read “James Riley, Properties.”
“I have an idea,” Paul said. “Perhaps we could rent the place.”
Mr. Riley, a ruddy-faced, rather jolly man in his fifties, was noncommittal. Oh, yes, he knew about the house in question. Yes, it was occupied and so far as he knew, the owners did not have any intention of either selling or renting the house to anyone.
“What would it take to convince them, say for a month or so?” Paul asked. He looked at the real estate man with the air of a multimillionaire from Texas. But the man was not impressed.
“Oh, I don’t know. They may not want to at any price. What figure do you have in mind?”
The question caught Paul by surprise. He swiftly calculated what he could venture in this situation. “Well, suppose you offer them a thousand dollars a month for two months on our behalf.”
“But why?” Mr. Riley said. “Why would you want to rent that particular house.
unless it is because of … well, you know what I am talking about.”
“Precisely,” Paul replied, brazenly, “precisely that. We have read about it and we would like to experience the thrill of spending some time in that house. We are not afraid. We are crime buffs, and this is part of our research. We happen to have a month of vacation coming up,” he lied, “and it would be the perfect place to spend it. Would fifteen hundred dollars a month do it?”
Mr. Riley shook his head. “I really don’t know, but I will take your offer to them. Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow morning?” The matter was closed so far as he was concerned.
“Wait a moment,” Paul said. “Why don’t you ask them what they want for a one-month rental? Of course, we will guarantee that we will leave the place in the same condition we find it.”
“That’s understood,” Mr. Riley said, glancing at his watch. “Leave it to me. Like I said, call me tomorrow morning.”
There was nothing more to be said. It was clear to Paul that if he were to enter the house it would have to be done with the owners’ approval. He was prepared to pay any amount, but that was not, as yet, necessary. So far he had done quite well, he thought. The bait was out. He could not imagine that the owner of this house, who was, as far as he knew, a middle-class man of modest means, would refuse fifteen hundred dollars for a month’s rent. But then again, he couldn’t be sure.
That night Paul could hardly fall asleep. Tossing restlessly in his bed, he finally drifted off to a fitful doze, during which he spoke of Amityville, several times awakening his fiancée.
Early the next day he called Mr. Riley, fearing that the answer would be no. But to his surprise the man sounded a lot more friendly this time.
“Well now,” the voice on the other end of the telephone said, “it appears that the owners of the house feel not entirely unfavorably toward your request.”
“Great,” Paul said. “What do they want?”
But Mr. Riley was in no hurry to tell him. “Why don’t you come on out and we will talk about it? These things are best discussed in person.”
“Well, of course, I will be glad to do that,” Paul replied. “But have they given you any indication of their demands?”
“Yes, they have,” Mr. Riley said, without the slightest change of voice. “Come on out and we will discuss it.”
There was a click on the telephone and Paul realized that the conversation was over. These Long Islanders! he thought. They are worse than the New Englanders. But he realized there was nothing he could do but obey. As soon as he could that afternoon, he excused himself at the office and drove out to Amityville by himself. Sybil refused to come along this time. She had things to do in the city. When he arrived at the real estate office it was already seven p.m., but the man had offered to wait for him.
After a handshake and the other polite preliminaries, Paul looked at the man expectantly, waiting for the news. And the news was not long in coming.
“To begin with …” Mr. Riley said, then paused infuriatingly to light his pipe, “they want an insurance policy for five hundred thousand dollars to make sure that nothing in the house is disturbed.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars!” Paul exclaimed. “Why, the house isn’t worth anything like that!”
“To them it is,” Mr. Riley replied. “Want to hear the rest?”
Paul nodded.
“In addition,” the real estate man continued, “in addition you will not publicize your visit here for any reason whatsoever; furthermore, you will guarantee that any journalists or other curious people will not be encouraged to come here while you are in residence.”
“I have no intention of publicizing our visit, not at all.”
“Good,” said the real estate man. “Then that is not a problem. Now we come to the final condition—money.”
“Yes,” Paul said. “What do they want? For one month, remember.”
“Yes, I remember. Five thousand dollars—take it or leave it.”
Paul was shocked. “Five thousand dollars for one month’s rent! That house?”
“That house,” Mr. Riley nodded. “Precisely. Are you interested?”
Paul gasped. He had not been prepared for that. But he had come this far and there was no turning back now. “Draw up the contract,” he said, swallowing hard. “When can we move in?”
“In two weeks’ time, the first of the month,” the real estate agent said. “They will take a little vacation. The money will go toward it.”
With that Mr. Riley got up and went to another desk at the far end of the room. He opened the drawer, took out some papers, returned to Paul and put the papers in front of him.
“What’s that?” Paul asked.
“That’s the agreement,” the other man said. “All you have to do is sign it and give me a check.”
“You mean you already prepared the agreement?” Paul said with amazement. “Suppose I hadn’t agreed to it?”
“Oh, but you would have. I can tell when a customer is ready. You were coming for a closing, not an inquiry.”
Paul silently cursed himself for having been so eager, but he signed the document without even reading it. He then drew out a check and made it out to Mr. Riley. Five thousand dollars for one month’s rent. Well, it wasn’t going to ruin him, he thought; still, it was a lot of money.
The two men shook hands and Paul left to go back to the city. All of a sudden he felt very hungry and tired. It was time for dinner, he thought, but there was more to it than that. His energy had been sapped. He was glad to get away.
“Be back on the first,” Mr. Riley said, as he followed Paul out of the office, closing up for the night.