“Yes,” the younger archaeologist replied. “Even more incredible is the fact that this young reporter simply picked up that helmet fragment off the ground yesterday. Even if the artifacts were simply dropped near the runestone by Orm Tokesson or his men, they ought to have been deeply buried by an accumulation of leaf mold and whatnot by now.”
“Would you care to describe the chemical composition of whatnot?” said the elder archaeologist.
“Ask Ames,” grunted Svenson, who must be as sick of the elder archaeologist by now as Shandy was. “Happens. Tree roots. Frost heaves. Animals digging. Kids playing treasure hunt. Done it myself.”
The thought of Thorkjeld Svenson in merry childish play was unnerving. Shandy ascertained that the archaeological party had arrived at half-past seven that morning and found the Horsemen still on the job, then wished them good hunting and went on out to the road.
Chapter 16
ONE OF THE SURVEYORS, the one who was doing things with a measuring tape and making marks on the road with chalk, looked vaguely familiar. A sunburned lad of nineteen or twenty, he straightened up and welcomed Shandy with a buck-toothed grin.
“Hi, Professor. Jeff Lewis, in case you don’t remember. We sure had one wild time last night, didn’t we? More of the same tonight, do you think?”
“I should keep the geese on the qui vive. They are your family’s—er—gaggle, aren’t they? I’ve seen you at school but hadn’t realized you were one of the local Lewises.”
“Sure. Born and drug up right here in Lumpkin Corners. I told Miss Hilda what you said in class last year about the geese saving Rome, and she happened to think of it yesterday. So it was your idea, really.”
“How remarkable. I wonder what I ought to have been talking about at the time. Anyway, I hope the incident will inspire you to read a little history now and then. Shall I be having you as a regular student this year?”
“I hope so. I signed up for Advanced Agrology, but the course is so full I don’t know if I’ll make it.”
“We’ll have to—er—look into the matter. Tell me, Lewis, what’s the object of this surveying caper you’re up to?”
“It’s my summer job. I have to earn my tuition.”
“Of course. I should have phrased the question more succinctly. Why are you surveying this particular place at this particular time?”
“Because my boss told me to. Oh, I get you, Professor. You mean how come Nutie the Cutie has this much drag with the town surveyor’s office? Hey, are you investigating, like you did when Belinda was kidnapped?”
“I’ve been asked to look into things a bit. Unofficially and on the q.t., Lewis. That, since you’re so interested in ancient Roman lore, is Latin for button up.”
“Oh, sure. But hey, Bill and I have been wondering ourselves. This is my buddy Bill Swope. Professor Shandy.”
“A relative of Cronkite Swope, no doubt,” Shandy observed as he shook hands with the other sunburned young man.
“Hey, you know Cronk?” said Bill. “Did anybody tell you he wiped out last night on his bike? He must be having a bird, stuck in the hospital with all this stuff going on.
“He may be by now. He was still a bit—er—out of it when I saw him a while back.”
“They let you in? Boy, you must know the right people, Professor. My dad was going over on his lunch hour from the soap factory, but when he called up to see if it was okay, they said no visitors.”
“Yes, they told me no visitors, too. When they caught me in his room, that is. I got what I believe is known as the bum’s rush.”
The fact of the great Professor Shandy’s having been thrown out of Hoddersville General somehow made him one of the gang. The two young surveyors laughed their heads off and proceeded to chat at length on the town’s time, asking for details of Cronk’s accident and agreeing with Shandy that an oil slick on the road at night could definitely have caused the crack-up. He didn’t tell them about the missing helmet and the defective headlight because, after all, one never knew.
“Now, getting back to this surveying job you’re doing. What has Nute Lumpkin to do with it?”
“Why, this is his land now. I guess. Anyway, it’s part of the Lumpkin property, all the way from Horsefall’s line down to the bend in the road where Cronk took his header. What we’re supposed to be doing is making sure Henny knows where his line is. Lumpkin claims that logging road where Cronk found the runestone belongs to him.”
“Is he also claiming Horsefall’s back teeth?” said Shandy. “Er—if it’s not asking out of turn, Lewis, how does your family feel about Gunder Gaffson’s offer to purchase the Horsefall property?”
“Lousy. We figure as soon as Gaffson got hold of Henny’s place, he’d be trying to squeeze us out, too.”
“And you don’t care to be squeezed?”
“Why the heck do you think I’m out here with dust up my nose and blisters on my back, trying to put myself through Balaclava? Dad says he’ll make me a full partner in the farm as soon as I graduate. You’re not catching me in the soap factory like my brothers, punching a time clock and wishing the heck I were old enough to collect my retirement pension. I’m going to major in Orchard Management. I was sort of hoping to buy a few acres off Henny someday, but I know I’d never be able to meet Gaffson’s price. We only have twenty acres now. But you said yourself that with proper rotation of crops you can get a high yield out of a small area. I don’t know how you’d rotate an apple tree, though.”
“You wouldn’t. You’d select your varieties with care, plant so as to utilize your space as efficiently as possible, and keep your trees well pruned. Forget Advanced Agrology this year. Go straight into Arboriculture. Get in some work with Professor Ames on Soils and Fertilizers. Next spring you’ll know enough to start planting, and by the time you’re graduated you’ll have the nucleus of an orchard.”
“Hey, right on! That makes sense.”
“Good. Now suppose you help me make sense. Is it possible this sudden insistence of Nute Lumpkin’s on establishing accurate boundaries means he’s planning to strike a deal with Gunder Gaffson?”
Young Lewis peeled a fragment of skin off his sunburned nose. “Sure, why not? Then he’d own the whole hill, as far as our place.”
“And why should he want such a large tract to build on?”
“Because of the soap factory, maybe?”
“What?”
“My brother told me the soap factory’s bought a computer company and is planning to move it here to Lumpkinton.”
“What would a soap factory want with so many computers?”
“I dunno. It’s what all the big firms are doing, buying up other businesses that they don’t know how to run. I guess they call it progress or something. Anyway, that’s what they did. So a lot of engineers and executives and vice-presidents and guys like that will be moving here and they’ll all want classy houses, so Gaffson’s got this jazzy development he wants to build. And I suppose Nutie the Cutie figures he’ll sell them lots of antiques to furnish their places with.”
“Then Nutie the Cutie had better refigure. Anybody who saddles himself with one of Gaffson’s classy houses at today’s mortgage rates will be lucky to have money enough left over for groceries, let alone Bow tea sets. I think you’ve hit it, though, Lewis. That could explain why Lumpkin is suing Horsefall. The Horsefall property, being on the top instead of the slope of the hill, has a better view and is less apt to be contaminated by sewage runoff from all those other houses there won’t be enough good leaching beds for. Therefore it would be the more desirable, and Lumpkin would have a better chance of unloading the rest if he could tie it in as a package deal. Thank you very much. Good to have met you, Swope. Perhaps I’ll see you later at the—er—barricades.”
“I’ll be here. We’ve already had to chase a bunch off. Hey, should I bring my dog team over later?”
“You mean—er—hunger-maddened malemutes?”
“Yeah, only all they do is hang around and pig
out now that the dogsledding season is over. Maybe we can kid people into thinking they’re wild timber wolves.”
“What a splendid suggestion. As a special favor to me, would you mind driving them past the elder of those two archaeologists who are in there with Dr. Svenson? I don’t suppose you’d care to disguise yourself as an Assyrian?”
“Huh?”
“Forget it. Just a passing fancy. Carry on, gentlemen.”
Humming “With cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal,” Shandy again bent his steps toward Fergy’s Bargain Barn. He found the proprietor in the act of selling a rusted-out wheelbarrow to a lady who wanted something cute to plant geraniums in. That reminded him of Loretta Fescue, of whom he preferred not to be reminded.
Millicent was ever so glad to see him. Poor woman, she must be having a boring time of it here. He must be careful not to let Helen know or they’d wind up having Millicent over to the house for dinner. Helen’s milk of human kindness tended to overflow sometimes. Anyway, the amount of money Fergy pocketed as he presented the deluded geranium lover with a hunk of otherwise useless wire mesh to line the wheelbarrow with so the dirt wouldn’t fall through the hole in the bottom must be a comfort to Millicent if she was indeed contemplating becoming a permanency in the establishment. No doubt they had their moments of tedium among the ketchup squirters, too.
After the wheelbarrow had been loaded into the woman’s car and the trunk lid tied down with some frayed rope Fergy donated as further testimony to his beneficence, Shandy asked what he’d come to find out.
“Fergy, while you were over there at the runestone, did you happen to notice a sapling bent over into a sort of arch?”
“Huh?” Fergy scratched his beard, now back to its accustomed state of dishevelment. “Seems to me—yeah, I did. It reminded me of McDonald’s hamburgers, see, an’ that made me think I ought to be gettin’ back to Millie, so I hurried over here to let ’er know what was up. Say, she’d sure like to get a squint at that gold they found. Any chance?”
“I’m afraid not. They have the area cordoned off and police out at the road. By the way, how did you get past Bashan?”
“Oh, I just bulled my way through.”
Guffawing at his own wit, Fergy went to get himself another beer.
Chapter 17
THAT WOULD HAVE MADE a fine exit line, and Shandy was more than ready to exit. However, there was still one point he hadn’t dealt with, and Fergy, who probably took that insatiable thirst of his to the neighborhood beer joints, was as apt as not to have some information for him. He waited till the next slug of malt was halfway down the fat man’s gullet, then asked, “Would you happen to know that son of Mrs. Fescue who works for Gunder Gaffson?”
“You mean Fesky? Skinny guy with black hair an’ a front tooth busted off?”
“If you say so. I’ve never seen him myself. I thought perhaps you might have—er—hung out with him sometime or other.”
“Yeah, we hoist one together now an’ then over at Billy’s Brewery. You ever go there?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“I s’pose guys like you have to be kind o’ careful,” said Fergy with an offhand contempt that Shandy found rather amusing. “Well, anyway, him an’ me sort o’ got together ’cause our names is so much alike only we look so different, if you get what I mean. For such a skinny guy, he sure can put it away,” he added with a tinge of envy.
“Has he any other talents, would you say?”
“I dunno. He fixed the jukebox one night when a Johnny Cash record got stuck. I guess he’s one o’ them guys that’s naturally handy with their hands. He’s mentioned doin’ odd jobs for his mother sometimes, like if she’s tryin’ to sell a house with a big leak in the ceilin’, for instance. He can fake it up so’s it looks okay till she finds some sucker to unload it on. Course as soon as the next rainstorm comes along, forget it. We was kiddin’ about it that night at Billy’s, after he got the jukebox goin’. Fam’ly moves in, somebody happens to sneeze, an’ Fesky’s repairs all falls apart. They’re left sittin’ there in a heap o’ lath an’ plaster.”
Fergy thought this was a great joke. So did Millicent. Shandy was not amused.
“How did—er—Fesky take your teasing?”
“Oh, he laughed. He’s an easygoin’ guy. Kids about it himself. He says that’s how come he gets along okay with Gaffson. They’re both good at fakin’ things up to look like what they ain’t. I guess that’s what Fesky does mostly, patches up cracks in walls an’ fixes the doors so’s they’ll open an’ shut three or four times before they fall off. Or so he claims. Anyways, I guess he does all right for himself. Always has plenty o’ the old do-re-mi. An’ never mind askin’ for an intro, Millie. Fesky’s too young for you. Anyways, he ain’t much for the women. All that gink cares about is beer an’ goin’ to the dogs.”
“Do you mean figuratively or literally?”
“Huh? Oh, I get you, Professor. You talk so damn educated sometimes it takes me a while to figure out what you’re tryin’ to say. I mean like goin’ out to the track. That’s where he spends most of his nights, I guess, when he ain’t at Billy’s. I don’t get over there too often myself so I couldn’t say for sure, but whenever I do happen to see Fesky, he’s always braggin’ about how he won forty to one on some meathound or other.”
“They say they train those greyhounds with real, live bunny rabbits.” Millicent shuddered fetchingly.
“So what? Gotta get ’em to run somehow, ain’t they? You wouldn’t act so squeamish if you’d just won a few bucks on one yourself, I bet. You gonna fix us that turkey Tetrazzini for supper?”
“Don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Peavey. I must be getting home,” said Shandy, glad to take the hint. He didn’t care to hear any more about live bunny rabbits and he’d found out as much as Fergy would be able to tell him about Fesky Fescue. If Loretta’s son the odd-job specialist had been exercising his talents around the Horsefall place, Fesky would have been particularly careful to stay out of Fergy’s sight. He turned to leave, then stopped.
“By the way, Fergy, did you hear that President Svenson’s uncle was injured down by the runestone shortly after you were there?”
“No! What happened?”
“He fell and cut his head.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t think it amounts to much. Miss Hilda is administering first aid and—er—tender, loving care.”
“Hilda? That dame’s about as tender as a rubber boot. Hey, don’t go tellin’ her I said that. I mean, she’s a great old gal, but, jeez! I’d hate like hell to have her soothin’ my fevered brow.”
“You’d rather have me, wouldn’t you, Fergy?” coaxed Millicent, who must have been feeling left out.
“Yeah, sure, anytime. Hey, I thought you was cookin’ supper. Gotta soothe the ol’ pauncho too, you know.”
“Isn’t he cute?” Millicent shook her frowsy curls and made a gallant attempt to wiggle her behind as she went off to the makeshift kitchen. Fergy watched her out of sight, then turned to Shandy.
“Hey, no kiddin’, Professor,” he asked in a sort of conspiratorial hiss, “how did the old guy get hurt?”
Shandy looked at him in some surprise. “I can’t tell you precisely.”
“I knew it! It was the runestone, wasn’t it? Go ahead an’ laugh if you want to, but I ain’t as dumb as I look. You can’t tell me precisely how Spurge Lumpkin died either, can you? S’posed to be an accident. Huh! The stone’s on what used to be his land, isn’t it?”
“You’ve been talking to Nute Lumpkin, have you?”
“Me? Not today, but a guy was in here a while ago sayin’ all that land you asked me about earlier turns out to be Lumpkin land, so that means it was Spurge’s as much as Nute’s, don’t it? Cripes, I wisht Spurge was still alive. If I’d o’ known he was a long-lost heir, I’d o’ hit ’im up for a few bucks.”
Fergy tried to grin, but it was a feeble effort. “Poor bugger. I felt like hell at that fune
ral, I don’t mind tellin’ you. An’ I don’t feel so hot right now, in case you’re interested. Think it over, Professor. Here’s Spurge gone an’ Cronk ought to be, after that awful spill he took. An’ now the old geezer who read them runes about the curse is laid out with a busted head an’ Henny’s in hot water up to his eyeballs an’ then some. An’ here’s me smack in the path o’ the—the whatever it is. Okay, I’m tryin’ to kid myself I ain’t scared, but I wouldn’t be human if I wasn’t, would I?”
Shandy scratched his chin. “Then it was remarkably brave of you to enter that enclosure with Bashan in order to get down the path to the stone.”
“Oh, you know how it is. A guy doesn’t like to admit he’s a coward, so he does somethin’ foolish to prove he ain’t. Hey, you don’t think it’s more apt to rub off, like, if you get too close? Is that what the big guy was yellin’ at me about? He said to get the hell out of there fast.”
“By the big guy, I assume you mean President Svenson. I’d say the curse you ought to dread is his if you try gate-crashing again, which I gather you’re—er—becoming less inclined to do.”
“Yeah, I knew you’d think it was a big joke. But you brainy birds been wrong before, don’t forget. Didn’t I tell you Cronk better watch out? An’ who’s layin’ over there in Hoddersville Hospital right this minute? Answer me that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
Shandy had just spied a television camera truck beetling up toward the Horsefall farm. In it were the driver, an announcer, a technician, and a bruised, battered, bandaged, but still reasonably comely young man with a now-familiar face. Cronkite Swope had made the big time.
“You’d better go eat your turkey Tetrazzini, Fergy,” he said. “Something tells me this is going to be another of those nights.”
He felt a desperate need for sustenance and wifely consolation himself. The hitch was that he’d left his car in Horsefall’s barnyard. By going to get it, he risked being nailed by young Swope for an interview. Well, the hell with it. He was too beat to walk eight miles home, and damned if he’d hitchhike. He went back to the farm and, as he’d fully expected, Cronkite pounced.
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