“What’s to stop her going back to Beekman Place if she gets lonely?”
“Nothing at all,” she said evenly. “But she won’t feel lonely with good-looking guys like you visiting with her. And you can stop turning your head side-on to me all the time—I caught the profile and I think it’s really something.”
“The right profile is fractionally better than the left,” I admitted truthfully. “But they’re both pretty good!”
“I love a modest man,” she sighed gently. “So now I know you have a terrific profile and nice big muscles. Is there anything else I should know about you while we’re on the subject?”
“Danny Boyd’s the name,” I said. “I was about to head back to New York, but I just changed my mind.”
“You have a good reason?”
“You,” I said. “What better reason?”
Her lips quirked upward at the corners. “I can’t argue with that, can I? How long do you figure on staying?” “Depends entirely on you,” I told her. “A housekeeper I don’t need, but a sympathetic companion—that’s something else again.”
“I don’t mind at all how long you stay,” she said, “but it depends an awful lot on Pete. I don’t think he likes you very much.”
“Don’t give me remorse!” I pleaded. “And if it depends on Pete, there’s nothing to worry about. I can handle him.”
“I think maybe you can,” she said softly. “Should we go back inside the house and tell Clemmie you’ve changcd your mind about leaving?”
“Plenty of time for that,” I said. “Why don’t you show me around a little? I’ve never got a close-up look at a farm before. How about showing me a steak on the hoof?” “This isn’t Texas, partner,” she said lightly. “But I can show you some bread on the stalk, or bacon on the trotter.” “This is something new for me,” I told her in a wondering voice. “A back to nature kick—life in the raw outside of nudism—and all that jazz. It kind of spoils things like you wearing clothes. The way I had it figured, there’d be a flute playing somewhere in the background while you gamboled naked through the woods.”
“We don’t have any woods,” she said. “And I never gamble—no girl in her right mind would bet on a profile like yours.”
“Martha Hazelton did,” I said. “You figure she’s in her right mind?”
“Should we see the barn first?” she asked. “Or would you prefer the pigs?”
“I’m easy,” I told her. “You feel like a romp in the hay first, it’s O.K. with me. A little exercise before lunch never hurt anyone yet.”
“If it’s fertility rites you’re after, it’s the wrong time of the year,” she said calmly. “Come back in the spring, I won’t be here then.”
We had a quick look at a cornfield; we saw the lake with a couple of out-of-town ducks swimming on it, and we saw the barn, complete with its hayloft, tractor and mechanical cultivator. We saw the chickens and the cows and I got my shoes plastered with mud all over.
Finally we got around to the pigpens. I stopped to light a cigarette and looked at a mother pig with nine baby
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piglets. It was a depressing sight, so I concentrated on Sylvia West instead.
“How long have you been a housekeeper-companion-farmer?” I asked her.
‘Two months,” she said. “Why?”
“You don’t seem the type, you’re more the penthouse than pigpen style of girl. I don’t believe you belong this close to the rich soil, even if that outfit you’re wearing is kind of cute.”
“If it comes to that, you don’t belong anywhere in New England, Danny Boyd,” she said. “What are you doing so far out of Times Square?”
“Martha asked me to say hello to her sister,” I said. “You know Martha?”
“Of course,” she nodded. “She’s been up here a few times with her father. She was here over the week end.” “Has Philip been around lately?”
“He was here at the same time.”
‘They all went back to town together?”
“Martha and Mr. Hazelton went back together on Monday morning,” she said easily. “I’m not sure, but I think Philip left late on Sunday night. He wasn’t around the next morning anyway—why do you ask?”
“He’s dropped out of sight the last couple of days,” I said carefully. “I just wondered.”
There was a revolting series of grunts from somewhere much too close for comfort. I looked into the pen next door to momma pig, and saw the solitary pig inside. It looked kind of outsize as it rooted around savagely, thrusting its snout deep into the black mud.
“Why is that one by itself?” I asked Sylvia. “All ready for market maybe—and that pen’s the death cell, huh?” “It’s a boar,” she said. “An old, bad-tempered boar, that’s why he’s on his own. You wouldn’t want to get inside the pen—those tusks can hurt!”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I assured her.
“He’s called Sweet William,” she grinned, “and he’s a living lie. But the girl pigs think he’s really something!”
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“The way he digs dirt with that king-sized nose, he looks like a syndicated columnist,” I said distastefully. “He’s got that look of morose belligerence on his face which reminds me of Pete.'*
“Don’t be so hard on Pete,” she said. “He was only doing his job.”
“To keep visitors out?” I asked. “What’s so special about this place you need a strong-arm to stop anybody taking a close look at it?”
She sighed gently: “Talk about morose belligerence! Mr. Hazelton has a phobia about privacy, that’s all. So he hired Pete to make sure he and his family get the privacy he wants. It’s that simple.”
“It’s that simple, I don’t believe it,” I said. “Pete is a professional.”
“Do you want to see some more of the farm, or will we go back to the house now?” she asked patiently. “It’s close to lunch time, and I could use a drink. How about you?” “You read my mind,” I said.
Sylvia walked away from me toward the house, and I started to follow, but then I heard Sweet William’s obscene noises building up to an alarming crescendo. I figured maybe he’d just struck gold, and against my better judgment I looked to see what the hell he was getting so excited about.
The boar was rooting vigorously in one comer of the pen—churning mud like a mechanical shovel. Already he’d dug a long groove around six inches deep, and was deepening it still further, grunting enthusiastically as he worked.
I watched with a kind of macabre fascination, until I saw why he was so excited. For a moment I didn’t believe it; then I leaned forward over the edge of the pen to take a closer look—and had to believe it.
Sweet William had uncovered the thumb and index finger of a human hand. While I watched, he looked up at me for a second, with satisfaction showing in his dull, brutish eyes. His jaws moved slowly in a peaceful rhythm,
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then he gave a satisfied grunt. I looked back at the deep groove he’d made in the black mud and swallowed hard. The top joint of the index finger was missing.
I figured if Philip Hazelton had left the farmhouse late on Sunday night he hadn’t gone very far.
CLEMMIE HAZELTON'S EYES SPARKLED AS SHE LOOKED AT
me when I walked into the living room.
“I’m glad you changed your mind and decided to stay awhile, Mr. Boyd,” she said. “It’s nice to have someone visiting.”
“Can I fix you a drink?” Sylvia West asked. “We have Scotch, rye, vodka—”
“Scotch on the rocks will do fine,” I said.
I lit a cigarette which tasted like the aftermath of Doomsday. Sylvia was busy making the drinks and Clem-mie sat watching me, her hands clasped around her knees.
“Lunch is going to be a little scrappy,” she said anxiously. “You don’t mind taking potluck, do you, Mr. Boyd?”
“Sounds fine,” I said.