(Stage lights up showing a plain wood table—downstage center—with table mike [fake], upright telephone [disconnected], and a plain wooden chair. At stage right, the studio engineer is seated at the controls. Enter: newscaster wearing heavy mackinaw and heavy boots. He throws script on table, hangs coat over back of chair, tests mike. Music comes from speakers: Gounod’s “Waltz” from
Music fades out as voice of station announcer comes over speakers.)
This is station WPKX, Pickax, with up-to-the-minute news about a storm caused by three low-pressure systems clashing over the lake. . . . But first a word from our sponsors. . . . Lanspeak Department Store is offering men’s all-wool three-piece suits for three dollars, including a free necktie if purchased the first day. Toodle’s Grocery has three specials while they last: fresh pineapples, fifteen cents; oranges, ten cents a dozen; and asparagus, two bunches for a quarter. . . . Pickax Garage says, “If you are trading your buggy in on an automobile, order now and take advantage of 1913 prices: a Maxwell touring car for six hundred dollars or a Maxwell runabout for five-fifty. Headlights and windshields included.” And now for the news!
That was all Qwilleran had time to write before dressing for dinner. He had to chuckle at the 1913 prices and thought they would amuse the audience. The fifteen-cent pineapple and six-hundred-dollar motorcar were based on actual ads from the
All was ready for the visiting architect. Qwilleran had showered and shaved and trimmed his moustache; the cats had been given an early dinner and instructions as to the proper behavior. Suddenly—half an hour before schedule—a construction truck pulled into the barnyard, and a man in a business suit swung out of the passenger’s seat and reached into the cab for a briefcase and a piece of luggage.
Playing the genial host, Qwilleran stepped forward with hand extended. “Mr. Hedges, I presume.”
“Hodges,” the guest corrected him. “Can’t stay for dinner. Flying out on the five-thirty. Early meeting in Chicago tomorrow. Can I call a cab from here?”
Qwilleran said, “Come in and have a drink and see the barn. I’ll call a cab.”
The architect gazed up at the lofty barn as if in a trance. “Interesting!” was his final comment.
“Quite!” said Qwilleran.
“How old?”
“More than a century.” Although Qwilleran usually spoke in whole sentences, he could be concise, too.
They were being observed by two cats in the kitchen window.
“Siamese,” Hodges said, as if disclosing an esoteric fact.
“Right! Follow me. You can leave your luggage on the antique chest at the back door.”
“Safe?” was the typical city dweller’s question.
“Absolutely!”
They went around to the rear, which was really the front—with its handsome double doors, eight-sided gazebo, and flowering shrubbery filled with twittering birds.
“Bird garden,” Qwilleran pointed out. “Gazebo for the cats.”
“Octagonal,” said Hodges.
In the foyer, which was as big as a two-car garage, stood a recumbent bicycle as well as a few works of art. “You ride that?” was the question.
“All the time. Drink?”
“Scotch, with a little water.”
“Feel free to look around. Good view from the top of the ramp.”
Hodges carried his drink around in silence.
“What do you think?” Qwilleran asked when he descended from the third balcony.
“I would have done it a little differently. Who was your architect?”
“Dennis Hough—not registered. Hanged himself from a rafter when the job was finished. . . . Pour again?” Qwilleran tilted the Scotch bottle.
“A little less water this time.” Hodges leaned on the bar. “You like living here?”
“It’s not bad.”
“Hard to heat?”
“I spend winters in a condo.”
“Mrs. Duncan’s a nice woman. Ever been married?”
“Once.”
“Will a bookstore go over in this town?”
“It should.”
A taxi tooted its horn in the barnyard.
Hodges swallowed the last of his Scotch. “How long to reach the airport?”
“No telling! Deer crossings can hold you up. That’s why I told the cabdriver to come early.”
“Come and see us in Chicago” were his parting words.
“Will do,” Qwilleran said.
Once again he was glad for the tape recorder in his pocket. No one would believe the laconic conversation.
A half hour later, Qwilleran picked up Polly for the ride to Boulder House Inn. He remarked, “I thought you said Hedges was interesting.”
“Hodges,” she corrected him. “Benson knows a lot about everything, but he doesn’t say much about anything. You know, dear, I think you have a psychological block about his name, or you’re doing it to be mischievous.”
He uttered a noncommittal grunt, and Polly enjoyed an amused silence as they drove to the lakeshore.
