“How long do you plan to stay here, President?” Shandy asked.
“As long as Orm needs me,” replied the great man simply.
“In that case, requiescat in pace. Mosquitoes bothering you much?”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
He should have known better than to ask. Shandy slapped at a whining pestilence that was trying to feast off his own less august person and took his departure, remembering to look suitably grave, as indeed he felt.
Out on the road, things were looking up. At least the traffic was beginning to move, though at a crawl, as the Lumberjacks lolloped up and down the lines urging drivers on. Nobody cared to argue with them. Their steeds were no slim-ankled equine playthings but mighty Belgians, Clydesdales, and Suffolk Punches that could tow an automobile or demolish one with a few well-placed kicks. So far the horses hadn’t been required to do so and probably wouldn’t have to. Like Thorkjeld Svenson, they were intimidating enough just to look at.
Nor were the riders puny racetrack jockeys with schoolboy figures and secret yearnings to write like Dick Francis, but burly farmers raised on home-pressed cider and home-fried doughnuts whose rhetoric was unpolished but whose views on damn fools who didn’t know enough to get their cussed carcasses out of where they didn’t belong were loud and efficacious. In short, when a Lumberjack told you to git, you got.
Spectators were still entering the barnyard to view the by now perfectly clean spreader where Spurge Lumpkin had met his ghastly doom, but they weren’t getting any farther and word was beginning to spread that there really wasn’t much of anything to see. Shandy saw that Roy was letting young Ralphie drive the tractor now, and moseyed on up to the house.
He was familiar enough with geese to be no more than reasonably intimidated by their hissing and flapping. He dodged his way through the flock with only minor attacks on his pant legs and put in his SOS to the college. After considerable bickering and a liberal use of President Svenson’s name, not to mention some of the president’s favorite expletives, he got a promise to have the battery-operated floodlights shipped over to Lumpkin Corners as forthwith as traffic conditions would permit. Then he called home, got no answer, dialed the Ameses’, and found, as he’d hoped, that Helen and Laurie were there drinking his coffee.
“What’s happening, Peter?” Helen asked. “Do you need more helpers? We’ve already scared up as many of the students as we could, but we might try scouting around down in the town.”
“No need. The Mounties are on the job.” He explained about Swope’s alerting the Lolloping Lumberjacks. “And I believe the Headless Horsemen are planning to take over the late shift. I’ve just arranged with Security to send us some portable floodlights. All in all, it looks as if the tide of battle has turned.”
“Is Daddy Ames all right?” Laurie piped into the phone.
“Having a whale of a time. When last seen, he was cleaning Henny Horsefall’s old over-and-under.”
“Good heavens, he isn’t shooting at people! He’s blind as a bat.”
“Oh no. I believe Henny let off a few blasts of rock salt earlier on. He’s pretty sore about all this, as you can imagine. He was all set to give young Swope a pantload for writing that article, but the young idiot’s been knocking himself out to make amends, so it appears that Horsefall’s decided to forgive and forget. So long as Swope stays out of range, anyhow.”
“And Roy? What’s he doing?”
“Commanding the heavy armored division. That reminds me, would you call Security right away and ask them to bring along a few spare cans of gasoline for the tractor? I don’t know whether Horsefall has any or not.”
“Sieglinde phoned a while back to see if we’d heard from anyone.” That was Helen again. “She says Thorkjeld’s uncle is having fits about having been left at home. Apparently he had a date with Miss Horsefall.”
“He wants to rune her reputation, if you ask me. Tell Sieglinde the president has the situation under control, as she might expect. God knows when we’ll be home. Don’t forget about that gas. We need the tractor.”
Peter hung up, grabbed a cup of the coffee Miss Horsefall and her goosegirls had prepared, and went back to the fray. It was really dark now and, as he’d anticipated, the new crowd that were bulling their way through the cordon made the earlier lot seem in retrospect like a bunch of Sunday school picnickers. What they needed was light.
He collected Roy Ames and Cronkite Swope. The three of them spent an interesting quarter-hour fiddling wires on the illegally parked cars. No doubt their owners would be surprised to find their headlights on at high beam, and no doubt a good many of them would have run-down batteries to contend with, and no doubt there’d be a few more fistfights and a lot more profanity, but Shandy went right on fiddling. In his considered opinion, it served the bastards right.
Chapter 11
PETER SHANDY WAS NOT sure when or how he got to bed. He had some faint recollection that a bus came over from the college to collect the president and his cortege. He had a dim notion that Roy Ames boosted both him and Tim aboard, and that one of the Lomax brothers who worked for Security was driving, though it might have been their sister-in-law herself for all he knew. He was out on his feet by then.
Long after the traffic had been set in motion and dispersed, the invasion of trespassers quelled, and the last tussle over who turned on whose headlights quieted down, a Lumpkinton police car had at last appeared. Shandy vaguely recalled that the two officers in the car had threatened to run Henny Horsefall in for disturbing the police and that the Lolloping Lumberjacks, respectable citizens and taxpayers though they were, had backed their mounts up in a circle around the cruiser and prepared to have their trusty steeds kick the living hell out of it if the cops didn’t lay off their old friend and comrade Henny; and furthermore where the hell had the cops been when they were needed, and if they thought Town Meeting was going to vote them the raise they’d been bitching for on the strength of tonight’s performance, they’d better think again. The Lumberjacks had thereupon dispatched a posse to gallop to the police chief’s house and wake him up and ask him who the hell he thought he was anyway, and the minions of the law had decided to adopt a more conciliatory attitude.
As to what arrangements had been made for the morrow’s onslaught, Shandy neither knew nor cared. He lay rapt in slumber until half-past eleven the next, or maybe the same, morning, and woke to find Helen bending over him with an expression of wifely concern.
“Peter darling, are you all right?”
“I don’t know yet,” he mumbled. “Kiss me and see if I respond.”
“You’re all whiskery.”
But she kissed him anyway. “I couldn’t bear to wake you. I expect Tim isn’t up yet either. You’ve missed the funeral.”
“Mine or his?”
“That poor Lumpkin man’s, of course. Roy went because he thought his father would want him to. He really is a darling boy. Oh, speaking of boys, Cronkite Swope is in the hospital.”
“Huh?” Shandy hurled himself out of bed. “Why?”
“He had an accident on his motorbike. Or off it, I suppose.”
“Good God! When?”
“Sometime in the small hours, I believe. They found him in the road.”
“Who found him?”
“Peter, I don’t know. Grace Porble got the news thirdhand from somebody who got it from Mrs. Lomax. At least, I assumed it was from Mrs. Lomax. It generally is.”
“When did you talk to Grace Porble?”
“Around a quarter to nine. I called to let Dr. Porble know I wouldn’t be at the library this morning because you’d been out all night being a hero. He’s frothing because you didn’t send for him.”
“What could Porble have done with that mob? Bop them over the head with Webster’s Unabridged? Drive them off with hard words? Fine them a nickel a trespass?
“He could have glared. He glares beautifully. Any man who can reduce a library full of students to absolute silence with
one haughty glance is not to be taken lightly. Now go shave off those dreadfully unbecoming whiskers while I make your breakfast. Or lunch, or whatever. How about pancakes and sausage and fried apples and things?”
“Sounds pretty good for starters. What hospital is Swope in?”
“How many hospitals do we have around here? He s over at the Hoddersville General, of course.”
“Good. Swope can’t have much wrong with him, then. Anything worse than an infected hangnail would overtax their facilities.”
“You’re in one of your moods, I see. I’ll go start the pancakes.”
Helen went off to the kitchen. Peter stood in the bathroom scraping off his overnight accumulation of hispidity and pondering. Was it a strange coincidence that Swope had been injured so soon after he’d called attention to the runestone? Was it a natural result of Swope’s having torn all over hell and gone on that flimsy bike for so many hours that he was no doubt as punchy as the rest of them?
Or was it something that Shandy, if he’d had half a brain, could have prevented? To how many people had Fergy repeated his superstitious blether about the curse of the runestone? How many others had thought up curses of their own? Shandy cussed himself a little and stood in shorts and undershirt wondering what to put on. Time was when he’d only have had to choose between a good gray suit and the corduroys he wore in the turnip fields. Now that he had a wife, his wardrobe was growing more complicated. He settled for a short-sleeved blue shirt and a pair of darker blue slacks, and presented himself at the table.
“Helen, do you believe in Viking curses?”
“Of course. How many sausages?”
“Pay attention, drat it. This is serious business. Six. Eight. Well, maybe three or four to start with. These are excellent pancakes, by the way. My compliments to the cook. Aren’t you having any?”
“Oh, is the cook allowed to eat with the master of the house? I may just toy with a sausage, now that you mention it.”
Helen fixed a plate for herself and sat down across from Peter. “In the matter of curses, by which I assume you refer to the fact that Cronkite Swope, whom I deduce from the comparative nattiness of your attire—I do like blue on you, Peter—that you’re about to visit, is supposed by half the people in Balaclava County to have fallen prey to it—where on earth was I? Oh, you asked me if I believe in curses. Certainly they work, if you believe they do. I mean, if you’d managed to convince yourself that Orm Tokesson really had it in for you because you messed around with his runestone, you might very well steer your motorbike into a fallen branch or whatever without consciously meaning to, and lay the blame on poor old Orm instead of admitting that your conscience was bothering you for having almost wiped out Henny Horsefall’s farm. Mightn’t you?”
“So you think Swope was punishing himself for inciting to riot.”
“Why not? If one were the vindictive type, one might say he had it coming.”
“One might indeed. But how would you square these alleged guilt feelings with the fact that Swope was charging around in high glee all evening, taking pictures and burbling about what a story that brouhaha was going to make? I submit, madam, that while Swope, who appears to be a decent enough youngster, no doubt had some qualms about what was happening at the Horsefalls’ and was doing his best to make amends, he had no reason to feel guilty over having hauled off a competent piece of journalism, which is what he gets paid for doing, and in fact felt none.”
“A hit man might haul off a competent murder for hire and feel some guilt about it,” Helen argued, helping Peter to another sausage. “Subconsciously, anyway.”
“If he had that kind of subconscious, he’d choose a different profession,” Peter replied with his mouth full. “Anyway, I’d be happy to know it was Swope’s subconscious mind and not somebody horsing around with his motorbike that landed him in the hospital. Did Grace Porble happen to mention whether he’s allowed visitors?”
“No, but I could phone the hospital and find out.”
“So you could and so you shall since you’re on this helpful helpmeet kick today, but you might as well finish your breakfast first. The odds are they won’t tell you anything anyway. They never do.”
“This is not my breakfast but my lunch and I’ve had all I want, thank you. Naturally I shan’t bother to ask anything but his room number. Then you can go straight on up instead of having to stop at the desk and be told you can’t. That’s what I always do.”
“God, women are unscrupulous.”
“Yes, dear. More coffee?”
“Just half a cup. I ought to get going. Er—were you about to call about that room number?”
“With never a scruple, my love.”
Helen went to the telephone and was back in a minute with a note in her neat librarian’s handwriting. “There you are. I wrote it down so you won’t forget. Give him my regards. Does he have family to run errands for him and whatnot?”
“Madam, you speak in jest. His mother is Mrs. Lomax’s late husband’s own cousin, who is related to Henny Horsefall’s great-niece by marriage. Her name, if I recall correctly, is Bertha. He also has two brothers who work in the soap factory, so if you were entertaining any notions of rushing over there to soothe his poor orphan brow, you might as well shelve them. I expect the relatives are lined up in rows over there, flipping coins to see who get first whack at soothing.”
“Oh, shucks! Then I may as well flounce off in a huff to the Buggins Collection. Will you be home to dinner?”
“As of now I see no reason why I shouldn’t. At that time you may soothe my poor orphan brow, if you so desire.”
“You overwhelm me with kindness, sir.”
Helen gave him a kiss on the forehead for practice. Then they rinsed the dishes, shoved them into the dishwasher, and left the house together. Helen walked up the hill to the library and Shandy stepped across the street to see how Tim was getting on. He found his old comrade still eating breakfast and being lovingly fussed over by his young daughter-in-law for having stayed out so late.
“It’s all your fault, Professor Shandy,” Laurie pouted. “You led him astray, and I expect you’re here to do it again. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the pair of you.”
“You’ll think of something, no doubt,” Shandy replied. “I just wanted to tell—Tim hook up, will you?”
He tapped his friend’s shoulder and motioned to the switch on Tim’s hearing aid.
“Oh, sorry, Pete.”
“Daddy Ames,” cried Laurie, “do you mean you’ve been turned off and I’ve wasted all my nagging?”
“It’s a waste of time anyway, honey. You haven’t the temperament. Too bad you never got the chance to take lessons from your late mother-in-law. Now, there was a woman who understood the fine art of driving a man up the wall. What’s happening, Pete?”
“Young Swope’s taken a spill off his motorbike. Apparently it happened shortly after we left the Horsefalls’ last night. Anyway, he’s at Hoddersville General. I thought I’d take a run over there and try to find out how it happened. Do you want to come along?”
“Not specially. I was thinking I ought to see Henny.”
“Roy and I will take you,” said Laurie. “Roy told me he’d be back to pick us up after the funeral, so he ought to be along any time now. I still haven’t got to see that runestone, you know. By now I must be the only person in the county who hasn’t. You had quite a night of it, didn’t you?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if they’re also having quite a day,” Shandy replied. “No doubt there’s another mob using the funeral as an excuse to gate-crash. Then I’ll meet you over at the Horsefalls’ after I’ve been to Hoddersville.”
He went down and got his own car, and drove over to the hospital. Thanks to Helen’s cunning, he was in Swope’s room before he could be barred from going there. He found the patient swaddled in plaster and bandages, with two black eyes and Merthiolate-daubed scratches where the skin was allowed to show, but awake and reason
ably cheerful.
“Hi, Professor. It sure is nice to see somebody who doesn’t want to jab a needle into me.”
“What’s the score, Swope?”
“I’m supposed to have a concussion, along with lacerations, contusions, a busted collarbone, a pulled tendon in the off hind hock, and the Fane and Pennon’s brand-new Polaroid camera smashed all to heck and gone, for which I’ll probably be docked a week’s pay. Not much left of my bike either, they tell me.”
“From the look of things, you’re lucky there’s that much left of you. What happened?”
“Search me. The last I knew, I was bumbling along, not going very fast because I was beginning to feel sort of bushed by then. Besides, I didn’t have my helmet on.”
“Why not?”
Shandy had a clear mental picture of Swope coming back at the head of the Lolloping Lumberjacks, his head encased in a beetle shell of turquoise-blue plastic complete with chin guard and safety goggles.
“I couldn’t find it. I know I had it earlier, but when I went to leave, it wasn’t hitched to the bike where I usually hang it when I take it off. I don’t know if I laid the helmet down someplace and forgot where I put it, or if some jerk swiped it for a keepsake. Anyway I looked around for a while but didn’t have any luck, so I thought what the heck and started off without it. Which reminds me, if you happen to know a girl from the college who wears hockey shin guards, a chest protector, and a fencing mask and has eyes sort of like limpid pools of night, if you get what I mean, would you mind kissing her for me?”
“Er—any special reason why?”
“Because she probably saved my life, if that’s good enough for you. See, she also had one of those velvet riding caps with the hard inner linings. When she saw me bareheaded she said anybody who rides a bike without a helmet is nuts, and stuck her cap on my head. I didn’t even have time to say thanks because the bus was leaving and she had to run for it. The doctor thinks I must have gone straight over the handlebars, and if I hadn’t been wearing that cap they’d have had to put my skull back together with Elmer’s glue.”
Wrack and Rune Page 10
