“He gave the town the ambulance, didn’t he?” called Tom Pulver, a short barrel-chested man who had lost his barn and part of his house in the fires.
“And glad enough I was too, when my father took pneumonia,” said Vera Janus.
Perly watched, his eyes unblinking as onyx.
Sam Parry was standing again. “Course, if you ain’t got a phone, you can’t phone up for the ambulance. Not that I’m complainin’. My old jeep was plenty good enough to get me to the hospital. And, of course, ain’t nobody offered a reward yet for the damn fool as shot me. And it ain’t strictly necessary neither to be wanderin about in the dark to get shot at these days. I managed it just by goin’ out to my own pump house in broad daylight, now, didn’t I?” Sam put his good hand to his forehead and shook his white mane vigorously. “But I’m gettin’ off the track. Just like me to be gettin’ off the track.”
Sam paused and the crowd murmured.
Anyhow, he went on, “what it was I wanted to say is how come its Perly up there? He ain’t town moderator, as I recall. He ain’t a selectman. Why he ain’t even a cop, though we got so many nowadays. What the dickens is he doin’ runnin’ this here town meetin’?” Sam finished and scowled around at his neighbors.
The answer came, finally, from Ian James, a burly deputy who had been elected to serve as selectman for eight terms running. “Jimmy Carroll’s supposed to be moderator,” he said, standing in his place behind the Moores. “And he’s moved away. As for selectmen, Wards out of town, and old Ike Linden’s been sick. So looks like that leaves me. And I hereby appoint Perly moderator. And anyway, it’s only regular town meetin’s got to be run that way. And it’s Red, not Perly, who’s runnin’ the meetin’.”
Perly smiled gently at Sam. “Who’d you have in mind, Sam?” he asked. “Yourself, perhaps?”
Slowly, the old man sat down. There was no laughter. The rows of faces tilting toward the auctioneer were stolid and noncommittal.
Mudgett stepped up to Perly and darted a sideways glance at him. “I guess we all ought to give Perly a hand,” he announced.
Again, nobody moved.
Perly pulled himself up and his black eyes seemed to penetrate and tally the refusal of every person there to start the applause. “Of course you feel angry,” he acknowledged. “Some of you even suspect that I’m personally to blame. You need to blame someone for the evils of the twentieth century—and you include these fires among them.
“But, believe me, someday you’ll understand what I’ve been doing. Movers and shakers have always had their enemies at first.
“Five years from now, in the new Harlowe, every person in town will leap at the chance to give me a standing ovation.”
Dixie got to her feet and shook herself, and Perly moved smoothly toward the New Hampshire flag and the steps down into the audience.
“Wait just a minute,” said someone near the back and everyone turned, recognizing the voice instantly—the flat matter-of-fact voice of one complacent in his power. It was Dr. Hastings. “Har-lowe’s got more cops per capita these days than New York City,” he said. “It’s got three sophisticated patrol cars, a radio-alert system, and a network of what we used to call ‘informers, which seems to include about half of Harlowe. I’d like to know why, with a force like that, the cops are having so much trouble catching one lousy firebug.”
“Give us a chance,” said Ezra Stone. The big deputy sat on a high stool near the wood stove with his arms folded. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch him.”
“And,” said the doctor, without even turning to nod to Stone, “as the doctor around here, I’d like to know how come the more cops we get, the more accident prone we seem to become.”
Perly had returned to the center of the stage and stood there, his eyes glistening on the doctor.
Dr. Hastings peered back unflinching behind his glasses. “And incidentally,” he added, “I’d also like to know why so many of my longest-standing patients are moving out of town.”
“If you want to make comparisons,” Perly said in his cool luminous voice, “have you looked at the per capita statistics for New York City on arson—let alone mugging, rape, murder, armed robbery? Why a New Yorker can hardly expect to get through a month in peace. Harlowe may be facing the first serious problem in its history, but most places are exploding with crime. And the reason, Doctor, that we’re better off than most, is that in a country town like this people act promptly before things get out of hand.” Perly held out his arms to include all the people in the hall. “People in the country know what brotherhood means,” he said.
“Everyone takes an interest in his neighbors. It’s the good will in a town like this that’s going to help us put an end to these fires. And, as for moving around, people still don’t move around half as—”
“There he goes again,” shouted Ma. “Standin’ words on their head. Down comes out up. Wrong comes out right. Shoot you in the back comes out the Sermon on the Mount.”
Perly shook his head at Ma. “Slipping,” he commented to the doctor.
John sprang from his seat and stood facing the auctioneer.
“Ask him about the auctions,” Sam Parry growled before John could think what to say.
The auctions? asked Perly, breaking into a jaunty smile and ignoring John. “Now you’re on my favorite subject. What about them? Never a town loved an auction like Harlowe. When I came here, I had in mind three—maybe four—auctions. But you folks just wouldn’t let me quit. Oh, I paid for everything. Maybe that’s why you kept showering stuff on me. All I did was float along on the crest of the wave. And a wonderful ride it was—the most American experience anyone can have. It’s like the very eye of a hurricane—where the sellers and buyers come to terms.”
“Ask him how bloody much he paid,” Sam Parry shouted.
Perly turned on him with his quick black look, then gestured to the people in the hall with quiet control. “Nobody has ever complained,” he said slowly. “Of course, I am a newcomer. My knowledge of prices around here is limited. But just let me ask. Is there anyone here who ever complained?”
In the silence, a log settled in the wood stove with a crash. Perly, standing light on the toes of his boots, leaned down over the people spread out below him. “Did anyone ever complain?” he repeated.
Finally, he put his hand on Dixie’s head and turned to Mudgett with a smile.
Ma had been shaking her head. Now she started to bang her cane on the floor, her gray head bobbing angrily over it. Everyone turned again to look at the Moores. Mim sat perfectly still. She felt she’d been caught in this moment a dozen times before, with the jacklight and the gunsights trained full on her. “Ma, please,” she murmured.
“I complained,” Ma cried, her voice hoarse. I complained loud and clear. Just like I’m a complainin right this minute.”
Mim put a restraining hand on her knee, but she brushed it off.
“Mrs. Moore...” said Perly, raising his brows and lowering his voice. “You didn’t complain when I made you a gift of a more comfortable couch.” He raised his head to the hall and said, “Mrs. Moore’s losing her grip... .”
“The hell she is,” John cried, still on his feet.
Nearby, Cogswell lifted his flask to his mouth in a sudden sweeping motion, tipped it back, and drank. Then he put the cover on, wiped his face on his sleeve, and pulled himself to his feet. “She complained all right,” he said. “And if there ain’t too many did, it’s because the pickup men had their orders. We had to make sure every soul knew about them accidents. Every time people got in a mood to complain, they heard about another accident.”