An Owl Too Many (24 page)

Too, the Compotes could be feeling a bit overwhelmed by having Winifred dump her horn of plenty on their heads all of a sudden. They might be wondering if she was as wacky as her grandfather, and whether it was safe to take her offering at face value. They must surely be concerned about that letter from Debenham. Who wasn’t? Peter said good-bye to Dodie and the old terrier and followed Winifred and Bill out of the office.

Elvira had vanished; the blanket was neatly folded and laid on the desk behind which she ought to have been sitting if she’d finished her nap. Bill grunted.

“Mae must have got her into the lounge. Just as well, I guess. Bad for the company image to have the help sprawled all over the lobby floor. I still can’t make any sense of this hypnotism business. How the heck could a person let some stranger walk up to ‘em and do a thing like that?”

“The same way two cops named Ottermole and Dorkin let it happen,” said Peter. “They just didn’t realize what Fanshaw was up to. It’s often supposed that only weak-minded people are susceptible to hypnotism; in fact, I believe it’s the other way around. I assume Elvira is of at least average intelligence?”

“Oh yes, she’s smart enough. She’s been handling some of the telephone orders and hasn’t made a mistake so far that I know of. Knows how to talk to the customers, too. I sure hope this business hasn’t fried her brain or anything.”

“Ottermole and Dorkin pulled out of it all right. I expect Elvira will, too.”

Peter didn’t say much more after that. Winifred had plenty of questions about the company’s operations and Bill was answering them at what Peter considered totally unnecessary length. He was relieved when they got back to Wilverton and saw the tugboat still moored below the sandbags, with Thorkjeld Svenson bestriding the deck like the Colossus of Rhodes.

Winifred was still saying good-bye to Bill. Peter left her to it and climbed up on top of the sandbags. “Ahoy the
Lollipop
!”

“Yesus, it took you long enough,” Svenson yelled back.

“Winifred had a good many things to talk about with the Compotes,” Peter explained as he clambered down the ladder to the boat, “and, I had to dehypnotize the receptionist. Luckily I had the right equipment with me.” He reached into Fanshaw’s pocket and pulled out the golden talisman on its chain. “Look at it, President. Watch the birdie.”

“Funny.” Svenson sneered at the swinging bauble. “Seen the river police. Left me a deckhand.”

“Oh? Where is he?”

“Below. Making coffee. Want some?”

Peter shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m still trying to digest my riverboat special. Did they bring you any fuel?”

“All set. I’m taking her back. Climb aboard.”

“Er—is there any offer of alternative transportation?”

“Knew you’d say that,” Svenson grunted. “Police car. Over there.”

“Ah. Then, since you have somebody along to help with the cooking, I expect Winifred and I’d better go the fast way.”

“Aloha.”

“And the same to you. Happy tugging.” With enormous relief, Peter jumped back off the sandbags and went over to the waiting police car.

“
I HOPE MY CAR
hasn’t floated away.”

Peter had been growing steadily edgier as they drew closer to Clavaton; some towns that hadn’t had any contingency plans were showing horrendous effects of the dam break. “Fortunately I parked well up from the road, on a concrete platform behind what appeared to be a warehouse over by the docks.”

The policeman who was driving nodded. “I think I know the place you mean, you should be okay. The river road’s in pretty bad shape, but we can get to your car by going down over the hill.”

By George, so they could. Peter hadn’t even forgotten to transfer his keys to Fanshaw’s suit. The car had stayed dry inside and started after only a few tentative coughs. He got Winifred safely stowed aboard, thanked their kind driver, and managed to follow the somewhat intricate directions for getting back on the Lumpkinton Road.

“I’ll drop you off first, Winifred. Unless you’d rather come along to Balaclava Junction with me.”

“Oh, thank you, I couldn’t possibly. I must find out what’s happened at the station, with Knapweed out of commission and Viola in a state. She may not even have gone in today. One could hardly blame her for staying away, considering what happened to her. Goodness, was it only yesterday? I feel as though we’d been gone a month.”

“Haven’t we?”

Inland, the road was in no worse shape than usual; Peter fed the car more gas. He was tired. God, he was tired! Was he getting old, or was this just the normal result of too little sleep and too much Clavaclammer?

Last Thursday night, he remembered distinctly, he’d had his customary good night’s rest. On Friday he’d been full of beans, handling his accustomed teaching schedule with aplomb, relishing the prospect of a brisk night among the owls. He’d eaten a hearty supper and gone forth boldly, as he had for the past twenty Octobers, clipboard in hand, binoculars at the ready, prepared to let not one of the Strigiformes in his bailiwick go unlisted.

Now that he had so many more interesting ways to occupy his time, Peter was no longer the compulsive counter he’d been in his bachelor days. Until Friday night, however, he’d still taken a quiet satisfaction in totting up a tidy total. Today, he had a melancholy, end-of-an-era feeling that he’d counted one owl too many.

Peter still hadn’t found out how that trick with the bunch of white feathers had been worked. He didn’t see that it greatly mattered; he evidently didn’t even care, or he’d have done something about it before this. In any event, the heavy rains must by now have obliterated whatever evidence there might have been. He said as much to Winifred and she agreed.

“I don’t see that it matters, either. Knowing how they worked the owl won’t bring Mr. Emmerick back. Not that we wanted him in the first place, though it’s cruel of me to say so. Surely the man must have meant something to someone. It does concern me a little that we still don’t know who he really was.”

“If the police haven’t found out by now, they soon will.”

“To be sure! You’re such a consolation, Peter.”

Winifred paused. Peter was aware of her pausing; how could he have missed a pause like this? It was the kind that felt as if it could be picked up and stored away in a box. Not knowing what else to do, he waited.

“Peter,” Winifred said when she at last got done pausing, “you’re going to think me silly for asking such a stupid question, but did it happen to strike you that, despite the cordial reception we got from Dodie and Bill, there was a certain reticence in their demeanor? Every so often during our conversation, I got this odd little feeling that what they were saying was something quite different from what they were thinking. Nothing hostile or hypocritical, but—something. Do tell me I’m being ridiculous.”

“If you are, that makes two of us. I’ve been trying to think of a tactful way to bring it up.”

“Why should you want to be tactful with me? I thought we were supposed to be colleagues.”

“In my experience, it’s the people closest to you whom you have to be most tactful with. If you really want to know, what I think is that the Compotes were knocked for a loop, first by our charging in unannounced and sending Elvira into fits, next by your rather staggering offer to make them equal partners and pour in the new capital they’ve been praying for, and lastly by that crazy letter from Debenham. I couldn’t help wondering whether, since the only Binks they’d dealt with before was your grandfather, they might be—er—”

“Wondering whether I’m another loony bird? One could hardly blame them for that, could one? Well, I expect it won’t take long to convince Dodie and Bill that, while we Binkses may be a bit flaky in spots, our promises are good and so’s our money. Of course the letter must have upset them, it certainly did me. I simply cannot believe, after all these years, that Mr. Debenham would…”

Winifred shook her head furiously and blew her nose into one of Dodie’s tissues. “Anyway, I’ll have to get straightened out with him before I can tackle anything else. Right now I feel as though I’d waked up in my own house and discovered the floor had been snatched from under me.”

She paused again. Peter let the pause run on to become a silence. What was there to say? At least, thank God, Winifred was preparing herself to face the lawyer’s treachery head-on. And P. Shandy was prepared to face it with her, by gum. Like Disko Troop, he hated being mistook in his judgment; he’d taken Debenham for a decent man.

“Not far from the station now,” he grunted after a while. “It was along about here the president and I found Viola tied to the tree. Why do you suppose they keep tying her to trees?”

“Because she bounces so, I suppose.” Winifred was trying to sound chipper. “Viola rather reminds one of a loose hot-air balloon. I’ve felt like tying her down a few times myself. I wonder if she came in today?”

“Somebody’s here, at any rate.”

Peter could see two cars in the parking lot. He could swear one of them belonged to his neighbors, the Porbles. Dr. Porble was Helen’s boss at the library, his wife was Helen’s great friend; he parked alongside and charged into the station lobby. A familiar, welcome figure was indeed sitting at the desk; but it wasn’t Helen.

“Sieglinde! What are you doing here?”

Helen would have rushed to hug them both. The Viking’s majestic consort went so far as to bestow a hundred-watt smile and a gracious inclination of her golden-crowned head.

“Thorkjeld telephoned to me after you had gone to seek the Golden Apples. He mentioned a shortness of hands at the station, so I borrowed the Porbles’ car and drove myself here. It is good to see you, Peter. And you also, Winifred. But where is my husband?”

“Somewhere on the Clavaclammer, bringing back the tugboat,” Peter explained. “I don’t suppose the president happened to mention that he hauled off a miracle last night, getting us safely downriver in the dark after we were cast adrift and the dam let go. If it weren’t for him, we’d have been wrecked and drowned.”

“No, he did not tell me that. He said only that he had enjoyed the sail but would have enjoyed far more being at home with me, which I well believe. I am not surprised that he is bringing the boat back, Thorkjeld is not one to shirk a duty. Also he gets few chances to run a boat. Purvis Mink and Alonzo Bulfinch are gone to their well-deserved rest, but Silvester Lomax is here. He has fed the birds and searched for miscreants, of whom as yet he has not found any but he is still looking. Silvester also has a great sense of duty.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Winifred. “It’s delightful to see you, Sieglinde, and most thoughtful of you to lend a hand. Evidently Viola isn’t going to show up today.”

“She has come,” said the president’s wife with a barely perceptible curl of the lip. “I sent her back to don more seemly garb. Shorts at this time of year are absurd and lead to problems with the kidneys. Furthermore, fat, red legs with bulges above have nothing to recommend them for public viewing at any time. Trousers I could have allowed. They are at least warm and practical, although not flattering to women of stalwart build, as I know myself to my sorrow, and to Thorkjeld’s amusement. Also, tree-hugging jerseys of a size too small with nothing underneath do not set an elevating tone in a place of learning. I explained all this. Your Viola did not perhaps see the thrust of my argument, but she quite clearly felt the force of my position. Tell me truly, Peter, did Thorkjeld get a suitable breakfast?”

“Never fear, Sieglinde, we knew better than to leave him unfed. There’s a policeman with him on the boat acting as galley slave. Anything else happened since you’ve been here?”

“There is a message from Mr. Debenham, who is most eager to talk with you, Winifred. In fact it is two messages, one earlier from his secretary, one a short while ago from himself in great perturbation. I have promised that you will return his call at the first opportunity.”

“I shall certainly do so,” Winifred replied grimly. “Did he say he’d be in his office all day?”

“He has insisted he will not stir from his desk until he has heard the sound of your voice.”

“He’ll hear it, but not on the telephone. Peter, may I impose on you yet once again?”

“It’s no imposition. Would you like to change your clothes or anything before we go?”

Winifred looked down at her jaded slacks and slept-in jersey. “I suppose so. I shan’t be long.”

“Take your time. I want to let Helen know we’re back, and also to find out how Calthrop is doing.”

“Oh yes, by all means. Find out if he’s allowed visitors. You did say in the car that he’s at the Clavaton Hospital. Perhaps we might pop in and see him after—”

She didn’t wait to finish her sentence, Peter could understand why. Sieglinde found the hospital’s phone number and, after a bit of shunting around, got him connected with the Intensive Care Unit. Calthrop was conscious and able to take nourishment by mouth. His vital signs were good enough for practical purposes, he was having tests to determine the extent of his head injury. No surgery was being planned at this time, he was being closely monitored. Only immediate family were allowed to visit.

So that was good news. Peter tried the Clavaton police station. The man called Fanshaw had in fact escaped in the storm. That was bad news, but he’d expected it. He dialed the college library and asked for his wife.

By the time Peter had reassured Helen that he’d be home to supper though hell should bar the way, Winifred was back wearing not her usual slacks and jersey but a well-cut gentian-blue coat and skirt with a flowered scarf tucked in at the neck. Navy-blue shoes, handbag and gloves, plus a blue felt hat with a fan of blue-jay feathers completed the ensemble. Sieglinde was enraptured.

“Ah! This is how a distinguished member of our faculty should look. You are a credit to the college, Professor Binks. Is she not, Peter?”

“In this and every other way,” he replied gallantly. Winifred would never be hanged for her beauty, but she did look pretty darned classy in that outfit. Distinguished, that was the word. Why didn’t more women wear hats?