“Yep. I sometimes get them in pairs or in threes, or sometimes a party of five rents the whole lodge. This isn’t a whorehouse, Mr. Hawes. I only take men who want to hunt…or fish. I’ve got my own cabin back of the lodge. I entertain girls there frequently…but that’s private enterprise. I’m intruding on nobody’s morals but my own. Any man is free to do whatever the hell he wants to, I figure, but if he comes to my lodge, he comes to hunt or fish. He can screw around on his own time.”
“Kramer came up alone, then?”
“They
“You had five guests the week Kramer was here?”
“Yep, and all from the city. Now, wait a minute, wait a minute. One of them checked in on a Wednesday, and he left before the others. He was a good hunter, that one. Fellow named Phil Kettering. Hated to leave. I remember on the Wednesday he checked out, he got up real early in the morning, went off into the woods to hunt a little before he started the trip home. Paid me, took all his bags with him, said he wouldn’t be back for lunch, but he just had to get in a little more hunting before driving back. A good hunter, that one.”
“How about the others?”
“Kramer was so-so. The other three…” Fielding rolled his eyes skyward.
“No good?”
“Bunglers. You know. Tripped over their own feet. I guess they were all amateurs.”
“Young then?”
“Two of them were. Let me see if I can remember their names. One of them had a real queer name, foreign sounding. Just give me a minute…Do you want another drink?”
“Thanks, no,” Hawes said.
“Will you be staying for dinner?”
“I don’t think so. Thanks a lot.”
“Be a pleasure to have you.”
“I really have to get back to the city. I’m overdue now.”
“Well, if you want to stay, speak up. Won’t be any trouble at all. Gets lonely as hell here when the house is empty. Now, let me see. This fellow’s name. Jose? Was that it? Something Spanish like that…but not his second name. That was hundred-per-cent pure white American Protestant. Joaquim! That was it. Joaquim. That’s the way it’s pronounced, even though you spell it with a J. Ho-ah-keem. Joaquim Miller, that was it. Some combination, huh?”
“He was one of the young ones, is that right?”
“In his thirties. Married fellow. An electrical engineer, I think. Or an electronics engineer, one of the two. His wife had gone to California to visit her mother, who he didn’t get along with. So he came up here to hunt. God, he should have stayed in the city. I don’t think he liked the hunting at all. Didn’t get a damn thing but a cold in his head.”
“How about the others?”
“The other young fellow was about forty, forty-two, pretty well-fixed. Partner in an advertising firm, I think. I got the feeling his wife and him were headed for the divorce courts. I think his getting away from her for a week was a sort of a trial separation. That was the feeling I got, anyway.”
“What was his name?”
“Frank…something. Just a minute. Frank…Reuther, Ruther, that was it Without an E. Just Ruther. That was his name.”
“And the old man? What about him?”
“Sixtyish. Tired businessman. Got the feeling he’d tried everything from skiing to water polo. This was his week to try hunting. It was quite a week, I’m telling you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, except that Kettering got a little bored with the beginners’ talk, that’s all. He and Kramer hit it off pretty well because he had some inkling of what it was all about. These other fellows, well. Not that they couldn’t shoot. They could shoot, all right. Any damn fool can hit a tin can on a back fence. But shooting and hunting are two different things. These men just weren’t hunters.”
“Was there any trouble that week?”
“How do you mean, trouble?”
“Any fights? Arguments?”
“Yes. One. Kramer got into a little tiff with one of the fellows.”
“Which one?” Hawes asked, moving quickly to the edge of his seat.
“Frank Ruther. The advertising man.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Clams.”
“What?”
“Clams. Kramer was talking about how good steamed clams were. Ruther told him to please change the subject because it made him ill just to think about clams. We were all at the dinner table, you see. Well, Kramer wouldn’t change the subject. He began telling about how to prepare them, and how to serve them, and I guess Ruther got a little sick.”
“What happened?”
“He got up and yelled, ‘Will you shut your goddamn mouth?’ He was a little touchy to begin with, you understand. Either that divorce theory of mine, or something else. Whatever it was, he was real touchy.”
“Any blows exchanged?”
“No. Kramer told Ruther he could go straight to hell. Ruther just left the table.”
“Who’d the other men side with?”
