“Good God! I shall certainly find out the young woman’s name for you and—er—pass on your thanks in a suitable manner, if my wife doesn’t object too strenuously. But getting back to your accident, if you don’t mind talking about it, you say you were bumbling along feeling—er—bushed. Could you have dozed off?”
“I doubt it. I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, just beat. I mean, gosh, that had been the most exciting night I’d ever put in, better than the flood at the soap factory, even. I was still keyed up mentally, thinking about how I was going to write up the story and trying to remember all the different things that had happened because there hadn’t been any time to make notes. Besides, I had to stay alert because I was having a little trouble with my headlight. I don’t know what was the matter, but every so often it would kind of flicker.”
“A loose connection?”
“I suppose so. I should have stopped to make sure the bulb was in tight, but it was so darn late and the road was pitch dark and I was afraid if I started to monkey with it, it might go out altogether. Besides, I hadn’t far to go. I live with my folks, just over in Lumpkin Upper Corner. So I figured I’d push along with my fingers crossed and catch a little sack time, and check it out in the morning when I could see what I was doing. But then I—”
Cronkite shook his head. The movement must have caused pain, for he winced and shut his eyes. “I don’t know what happened. The bike just went crazy.”
“And you haven’t the slightest idea why?”
“Orm. That’s all I can—”
“I’m sorry, sir.” An irate nurse had appeared. “You’ll have to leave. This patient is supposed to have absolute rest.”
“Then why didn’t you put a ‘No Visitors’ sign on the door?”
“We left instructions at the reception desk. Naturally we assumed people would have sense enough to stop and ask before they came up.”
So much for Helen’s foolproof system. Shandy slunk off in ignominious retreat.
Chapter 12
EXCEPT FOR THE MINOR wound to his dignity, Shandy didn’t mind being kicked out of the hospital. He’d got the information he’d come for and Swope didn’t appear to be in any grave danger. Bless that child with the riding cap, whoever she might be. Thorkjeld Svenson would know.
As to how Swope had come to take that header off his bike, the president wouldn’t be able to tell, but Shandy could take an educated guess. The time, the place, the circumstances, the malfunctioning headlight, and the missing helmet were at least one coincidence too many.
To be sure, there’d been plenty of vandalism last night. Shandy himself was not altogether guiltless in that regard, considering how many headlights he personally had tampered with. However, Swope’s bike wouldn’t have been a particularly vulnerable target, one might think. In the first place, the reporter had hardly been off it except for the time he’d spent riding around on the tractor taking pictures. That had been some time before dark. Long afterward he’d been scooting back and forth from hither to thither, rallying the Lumberjacks, trying to find strategic placements for them and their horses, chasing off trespassers who were making particular nuisances of themselves, rushing down to see how things were progressing at the runestone, rushing back to the scene of action at the farm, rushing up to the house to phone late developments to his editor, since the Fane and Pennon was evidently preparing an unheard-of double extra for that week. He couldn’t have taken the bike into the house, of course, but it would have been left inside the protective circle of geese.
And that gave one something else to chew on. Among the gooseherders were not only Marie and Jolene but also the Lewis woman whose son Henny had originally accused of doing damage around the farm and an assortment of other Horsefall youngsters and oldsters, including the incredibly well preserved and maybe slightly crazy Miss Hilda. They’d have had a better chance than anybody else to get at the bike.
That didn’t mean one of them had done the dirty work. Anyone at all might conceivably have managed to reach out and give the headlight a little twist in passing, just enough to loosen the bulb or wire and cause that blinking Swope had found so bothersome. As to the helmet, that could have been taken only very late in the evening. Otherwise, Swope would have missed it before he set out for home. By then, no doubt, he’d have been as punchy as the rest of the defense squad even though he insisted he wasn’t. Those helmets were cumbersome things to be wearing on a warm night. Maybe the young reporter had taken the thing off to cool his head or swat a mosquito that had worked its way inside, or simply because he couldn’t stand its weight any longer. Stealing the helmet and twisting the lamp could have been a sudden chance somebody saw and grabbed. Engineering the accident would have meant simply getting down the road Swope was about to take a little bit before him, and having something handy to grease the road with.
As Shandy drove slowly up the road toward the Horse-falls’, he had no trouble finding the exact spot where the crash had occurred. Bits of glass and metal still glittered at the sides of the road where they’d been swept after the wreck. He parked and got out.
By bending over and squinting along the macadam, he could see the remains of an oil slick. One might naturally assume it had come from the smashed bike, and no doubt that was what whoever poured the oil there had counted on. Shandy had ridden a wide enough assortment of vehicles himself over the years to know what hitting a slippery patch unexpectedly could do to a two-wheeler. The place chosen was ideal: a tricky wiggle at the bottom of a gentle incline. Swope would have picked up a little more speed going down than he realized. He’d have swung his handlebars, expecting to take the curve, and been over them headfirst, just as he’d said, the instant his front tire hit that oiled surface.
Dozens of cars, maybe a hundred or more, must have passed over this spot since the accident happened. There couldn’t be enough left of the oil on the road to test for evidence that two different kinds might have been spilled here last night. Even if such a finding were made, how would it be possible to prove the brand that wasn’t Swope’s hadn’t simply dripped out of somebody’s crank-case during that mammoth traffic jam earlier? Swope himself probably wouldn’t believe he’d been the victim of a deliberate attempt to murder or maim him. If the young fellow hadn’t survived to mention the headlight and the helmet, Shandy might not have believed it, either.
He got back into his car and drove slowly on. As he neared the logging road, he was not at all surprised to see the verge crowded with parked cars and the police chief himself maintaining law and order with all the diplomatic charm of a Prussian general whose boots were pinching his corns. Shandy pulled in behind a collection of rusted metal so shamefully derelict that it could only belong to President Svenson, managed after some argument to persuade the strong arm of the law that he was indeed Professor Peter Shandy and a member of the archaeological party, which in fact he was not, and was allowed to enter the road.
As he expected, he found the president there with his Uncle Sven, a bodyguard of students, and a couple of excited strangers who must be bona fide archaeologists.
“What the hell are you doing here?” was Svenson’s cordial greeting.
“I came seeking information.”
“Urrgh?”
“Who was the young lady clad in shin guards, a fencing mask, and a catcher’s whatsit who was a member of your goon squad last night?”
“Why?”
“She saved Cronkite Swope’s life.”
“How?”
“By making him wear her riding cap after somebody swiped his helmet prior to wrecking his motorbike.”
“Who?”
“He appears to be under the delusion it was Orm Tokesson.”
“Arrgh!”
“No doubt.”
Shandy waited, knowing how unsafe it was to try to hustle the president. At last Svenson uttered again.
“Where?”
“About half a mile back, where the road turns off toward Lumpkin Upper—”
“Not there where,” snapped Svenson. “Where’s Swope?”
“Oh. In Hoddersville General with a fractured clavicle, a pulled tendon, and a damned sore head. He’d have fractured his skull if that young woman hadn’t shown such excellent sense. To repeat my earlier question, who is she? He wants me to kiss her for him.”
“Send her over. Kiss her himself. Do it better. Jennie, Julie, some damn thing. Jessie. Jessica Tate. Pretty. Mrs. Mouzouka. Go.”
Shandy went. He’d learned all he needed to know. Jessica Tate was taking special instruction in either Restaurant Management or Farm Food Processing. Mrs. Mouzouka, high priestess of the Dietetic Department, would track her down for him on request. As to the kissing, Svenson’s suggestion that he take Miss Tate over to the hospital and let Swope handle that detail himself was undoubtedly the wiser, although Helen was kind enough to maintain Peter kissed rather nicely. Miss Tate must be a real eyeball-popper if Svenson was willing to call her pretty. Having Sieglinde for a wife and seven daughters who took after their mother naturally gave him elevated standards of feminine pulchritude.
Having accomplished his first two objectives, Shandy went on up to the Horsefalls’ and paid his respects to Miss Hilda and Henny. As he’d expected, the place was mobbed with Horsefalls unto the third, fourth, and fifth generation once, twice, and thrice removed, along with friends, neighbors, and members of the Ladies’ Aid anxious to make sure Miss Hilda didn’t overtax herself and louse up the Grand Birthday Party by having a heart attack.
Fergy was there with his hair slicked down and his beard combed into a pretty good imitation of the second Smith Brother’s. He had on a tan suit with a bright yellow tattersall check and looked altogether less like the stage hick in a television country music show and more like the sort of real estate agent who sold choice building lots in the middle of mangrove swamps. Perhaps he was feeling out of place among this welter of Horsefalls; at any rate he greeted Shandy like a long-lost brother.
“Say, Professor, you’re a sight for sore eyes. What’s happenin’?”
“I’ve just come from visiting young Swope at the hospital.”
“Who, Cronk? What’s he doin’ there?”
“Recovering, I hope. Didn’t you hear about his accident last night?”
“No! When did it happen?”
“Sometime after midnight is the best I can tell you. Shortly after I myself left on the bus with the—er—Balaclava contingent. He cracked up his motorbike down the road from you a way.”
“Well I’ll be damned. First I’ve heard of it.”
“You didn’t hear the disturbance? I expect they must have had an ambulance and so forth.”
“They could o’ had the Angel Gabriel with a brass band an’ I’d o’ still slept through the racket after what went on around here last night. I don’ know if you noticed, but I had kind of a busy time myself. They was pilin’ into the barn like there was no tomorrow. That’s how come I never got over here to lend a hand. I didn’t dare turn my back on ’em for a second an’ by the time they cleared out I was too pooped to pop. Besides, I got company stayin’ with me.” Fergy winked. “Real nice little lady I met down in Florida.”
That would be the woman with the three sweaters Shandy had noticed making change last night. “Is your friend here now?”
“Naw, she’s back there mindin’ the shop. She ain’t one to butt in among strangers, specially when it’s a family gatherin’ like this here. Oh, Jesus! Talk about buttin’ in.”
A purple car driven by a large woman in a purple dress and a purple hat had just whizzed past them and screeched to a halt in the driveway. Mrs. Fescue got out, all teeth and gush, and wormed her way through the multitudes.
“Now what’s she got up her sleeve?” Fergy muttered. “Say, I meant to ask you, is Cronk hurt bad?”
“Fairly well banged up. He has a broken collarbone and a mild concussion, among other things.”
“Concussion, eh? Is he conscious? How come they’re allowin’ visitors?”
“They’re not. I—er—sneaked past the receptionist and was thrown out as soon as they caught up with me. If you were thinking of going over to the hospital, I’d suggest you wait a day or so. He has a good many relatives, I believe, and no doubt they’ll expect priority.”
“Them an’ his girl friends,” Fergy said rather absentmindedly, with an eye on Loretta Fescue. “Cronk tell you how it happened?”
“He doesn’t seem to know.”
“Yeah? That don’t surprise me none. Awful dangerous things, them flimsy little bikes. Wouldn’t catch me on one even if they made the seats broad enough to hold me. Come on, let’s mosey over an’ see what she’s up to. I don’t trust that woman as far as I could throw ’er, which between you an’ me I wouldn’t mind doin’. Don’t take no college education to figure out why Jim Fescue drank hisself to death.”
They sauntered toward the porch, where Mrs. Fescue by now had Henny Horsefall backed into a corner. Her loud, nasal voice was easy to pick out over the rest of the babble.
“So you see it’s only a matter of time before they declare this whole area a historic monument. You’ll be smart to sell out now, before the government snatches the place right out from under your nose for ten dollars an acre if you’re lucky enough to get it.”
Henny looked scared as well as trapped. By now Mrs. Fescue had caught the attention of many besides himself, Shandy, and Fergy. There was much clearing of throats and shuffling of feet among the Horsefalls, then an outbreak of mutters.
“Knew that damn runestone would—”
“Never can tell what the government’s goin’ to—”
“Get it while the gettin’s good.”
“Too much for him to handle anyway, now that Spurge is—”
“At the price she claims she can—”
“No!”
Above Mrs. Fescue’s strident whine, above all the adult rumblings, rose the voice of young Ralphie Horsefall. “Don’t listen to her, Uncle Henny. She’s puttin’ you on about that historic monument stuff.”
“Look here, Ralphie,” some grown-up began. “You stay out—”
“Why the hell should I? I’m as much a member of this family as you are, ain’t I? You’re all ready enough when it comes to the big bucks, but how many of you are ever willin’ to come over on a Saturday mornin’ an’ tail onto a manure fork? I never see anybody here workin’ but Uncle Eddie and his kids and my own dad and my brothers and my sister Hilly once in a while when she can spare the time from hangin’ around the telephone in case some guy decides to give her a break for a change. An’ Mum an’ Aunt Jolene,” he added as an afterthought. Mothers, after all, were expected to work.
A teenaged girl whom even Thorkjeld Svenson would have deemed passable threw her brother a dirty look but stuck up for him nonetheless.
“Ralphie’s right, Uncle Henny. I don’t believe for one second the government could walk in here and take over the farm just on account of that runestone. And what if they did take that one tiny corner it’s standing on? Then they’d have the pain in the neck of having to look after it, wouldn’t they? And it would bring people past the farm and you could put up your vegetable stand like you used to. And maybe I could get a scholarship to Balaclava and take that course in Farm Restaurant Management. Aunt Hilda and I might start a lunchroom. We could sell sandwiches and hot coffee—”
“And have all the drunks reeling in here on their way back from New Hampshire,” sneered a vinegar-faced second cousin once removed who knew he stood no chance of being cut in on the pie no matter what happened but figured he might as well put in his two cents’ worth on general principles.
“What if we did?” cried Hilly. “Their money’s as good as yours, isn’t it?”
“And they part with it a dern sight easier,” snickered somebody who never had liked the second cousin once removed much anyhow.
“I must say it’s nice to see wise heads on young shoulders for a change,” said a portly aunt by mar
riage, fanning herself with last Sunday’s church calendar that she’d picked up during the funeral, for she minded the heat. “You listen to those children, Henny. Don’t let anybody rush you into anything. I never do. Hilly dear, since you’re so keen to be a waitress, how’d you like to bring your poor tired old auntie a drink of water?”
“There’s lemonade for them as wants it,” said Miss Hilda, coming out with a frosty pitcher and a tray of glasses, “which don’t include nobody with no more common decency than to come weaselin’ in on a family gatherin’ at a time o’ mournin’,” she added with a glare that not even Loretta Fescue had brass enough to ignore.
“Of course not, Miss Horsefall,” the realtor replied sweetly. “I must be running along anyway. I just wanted to do you the favor of letting you know which way the wind’s blowing before it’s too late for you to do something about it. You have my office telephone number, Mr. Horsefall, if you need to get hold of me in a hurry.”
Chapter 13
“CONSIDERIN’ WHAT HAPPENED TO the last poor geezer that got hold of Loretta, you better think twice before you pick up that phone, Henny,” Fergy chuckled as he accepted a glass of lemonade. “Thank you kindly, Miss Hilda, though I didn’t mean to butt in on the family.”
“Hell, you ain’t comp’ny. You’re just folks,” Miss Horsefall reassured him. “Hilly, bring Fergy a piece o’ that there layer cake. Jolene made it, but it ain’t bad. Professor, you want some, too?”
“Thank you, but my wife gave me a large meal just before I left the house,” Shandy replied.
“He only got married in January an’ it ain’t wore off yet,” Miss Hilda explained in a loud aside to the aunt who suffered from the heat. “Now who’s that comin’? Oh, the mailman. Bunch o’ sympathy cards from folks that’s too lazy to write a decent letter, I s’pose. Go get ’em, Ralphie.”
Ralphie obliged. The old woman flipped through the handful of mail, her glasses far down on her nose and the envelopes held out at arm’s length.
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