by Bryce Walton
bliss in their eyes as they stood theretogether. It made a lump come into your throat, until you realized whatthey were staring at.
"Incidentally," I said casually, figuring now was as good a time as anyto get them used to the idea. "The startlingly different constructionpattern you've had us follow will result in, ah, minor repairs in thehouse being necessary from time to time. Remember my telling you that atthe start?"
Stoddard nodded, brushing the information away casually.
"Yes, certainly I remember your saying something about that. But don'tworry. I won't hold you responsible for any minor repairs which theunique construction causes."
"Thanks," I told him dryly. "I just wanted to make certain we had thatpoint clear."
* * * * *
The Stoddards moved in just as soon as the last inch of work on theirdream monster was finished. I paid off my men, banked a nice profit onthe job, and went back to building actual houses again. I thought mytroubles with the Stoddards at an end.
But of course I was wrong.
It was fully a month after the Stoddards had been in their madhouse thatI got my first indignant telephone call from George B. Stoddard himself.
"Mr. Kermit," said the angry voice on the phone, "this is George B.Stoddard."
I winced at the name and the all too familiar voice, but managed tosound cheerfully friendly.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Stoddard," I oozed. "How are you and the Missusgetting along in your dream castle?"
"That," said George B. Stoddard, "is what I called about. We have beenhaving considerable difficulty for which I consider your constructionmen to be responsible."
"Now just a minute," I began. "I thought we agreed--"
"We agreed that I was to expect certain occasional minor repairs to benecessary due to the construction of the house," Stoddard broke in. "Iknow that."
"Then what's the trouble?" I demanded.
"This house is plagued with rats," said Stoddard angrily.
"Rats?" I echoed.
"Exactly!" my client snapped.
"But how could that be possible?" I demanded. "It's a brand new house,and rats don't--"
Stoddard broke in again. "The devil they don't. We have them, and itcan't be due to any fault but those construction men of yours."
"How could it be their fault?" I was getting a little sore.
"Because it isn't my fault, nor my wife's. And the building, as youobserved a minute ago, is practically new."
"Now listen," I began.
"I wish you'd come out here and see for yourself," Stoddard demanded.
"Have you caught any?"
"No," he answered.
"Have you seen any?" I demanded.
"No," Stoddard admitted, "but--"
This time I did the cutting in.
"Then how do you know you have rats?" I demanded triumphantly.
"Because," Stoddard almost shouted, "as I was going to tell you, I canhear them, and my wife can hear them."
I hadn't thought of that. "Oh," I said. Then: "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I am very sure. Now, will you please come out here and see whatthis is all about?" he demanded.
"Okay," I said. "Okay." And then I hung up and looked around for my hat.My visit wasn't going to be any fun, I knew. But what the hell. I had toadmit that if Stoddard and his wife were hearing noises that soundedlike rats, they had a legitimate squawk. For I built the house, and noamount of crazy ideas in its design by Stoddard could explain thepresence of vermin.
* * * * *
Both the Stoddards met me at the door when I arrived out in the Mayfairsubdivision where I'd built their monstrosity. As they led me into theliving room, I caught a pretty good idea of their new home furnishings.They hadn't changed ideas, even to the mixing of a wild mess of variousnations and periods in the junk they'd placed all around the house.
They led me past an early American library table to a deep Moroccanstyle couch, and both pulled up chairs of French and Dutch design beforeme.
Feeling thus surrounded by a small little circle of indignation, I beganturning my hat around in my hands, staring uncomfortably at mysurroundings.
"Nice place you've got here," I said.
"We know that," Stoddard declared, dismissing banalities. "But we'd bestget immediately to the point."
"About the rats?" I asked.
"About the rats," said Stoddard. His wife nodded emphatically.
There was a silence. Maybe a minute passed. I cleared my throat.
"I thought you--" I began.
"Shhhh!" Stoddard hissed. "I want you to sit here and hear the noises,just as we have. Then you can draw your own conclusions. Silence,please."
So I didn't say a word, and neither did mine hosts. We sat there likedelegates to a convention of mutes who were too tired to use theirhands. This time the silence seemed even more ominous.
Several minutes must have passed before I began to hear the sounds. Thatwas because I'd been listening for rat scrapings, and not prepared forthe noises I actually began to hear.
Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard had their heads cocked to one side, and werestaring hard at me, waiting for a sign that I was catching the sounds.
At first the noises seemed faint, blurred perhaps, like an almostinaudible spattering of radio static. Then, as I adjusted my ear tothem, I began to get faint squeaks, and small, sharp noises that werelike far distant poppings of small firecrackers.
I looked up at the Stoddards.
"Okay," I admitted. "I hear the noises. They seem to be coming frombehind the walls, if anywhere."
Stoddard looked smugly triumphant.
"I told you so," he smirked.
"But they aren't rat scrapings," I said. "I know the sounds rats make,and those aren't rat sounds."
Stoddard sat bolt upright. "What?" he demanded indignantly. "Do you meanto sit there and tell me--"
"I do," I cut in. "Ever heard rat noises?"
Stoddard looked at his wife. Both of them frowned. He looked back at me.
"No-o," he admitted slowly. "That is, not until we got these rats. Neverhad rats before."
"So you jumped to conclusions and thought they were rat noises," I said,"even though you wouldn't recognize a rat noise if you heard one."
Stoddard suddenly stood up. "But dagnabit, man!" he exploded. "If thosearen't rat noises, what are they?"
I shrugged. "I don't know," I admitted. "They sound as if they might becoming through the pipes. Perhaps we ought to take a look around thehouse, beginning with the basement, eh?"
Stoddard considered this a minute. Then he nodded.
"That seems reasonable enough," he admitted.
* * * * *
I followed the amateur designer-owner of this madhouse down into thebasement. There we began our prowl for the source of the noise. Hesnapped on the light switch, and I had a look around. The boiler andeverything else in the basement was exactly as I remembered it--in thewrong place.
There was an array of sealed tin cans, each holding about five gallons,banked around the boiler. I tapped on the sides of these and askedStoddard what they were.
"Naphtha," he explained, "for my wife's cleaning."
"Hell of a place to put them," I commented.
A familiar light came into Stoddard's stubborn eyes.
"That's where I want to put them," he said.
I shrugged. "Okay," I told him. "But don't let the insurance people findout about it."
We poked around the basement some more, and finally, on finding nothingthat seemed to indicate a source of the sound, we went back up to thefirst floor.
Our investigation of pipes and other possible sound carriers on thefirst floor was also fruitless, although the sounds grew slightlystronger than they'd been in the basement.
I looked at Stoddard, shrugging. "We'd better try the second floor," Isaid.
I followed him upstairs to the second floor. Aside from the crazy belfry
just above the attic, it was the top floor of the wildly constructeddomicile.
The sounds were distinctly more audible up there, especially in thecenter bedroom. We covered the second floor twice and ended back up inthat center bedroom again before I realized that we were directlybeneath the attic.
I mentioned this to Stoddard.
"We might as well look through the attic, then," Stoddard said.
I led the way this time as we clambered up into the attic.
"Ever looked for your so-called rats up
