“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” said George Lockwood.
“It’s called Magico.”
“Magic with an O on the end of it?”
“Yes. It’s a radio set. Eight tubes, and it was designed by a couple of young fellows in Chicago. They have some kind of a gadget that eliminates most of the static in the cities, where the steel in the buildings and the electric power for elevators and so forth—you know. If what they claim is true, 40 is a low price to sell at. But I’ll be satisfied with 40.”
“Yes, and the question immediately arises, why haven’t the Stromberg-Carlsons and the Atwater Kents perfected this thing? Why two young fellows in Chicago?”
“George, I didn’t go to M.I.T., remember? And I’m not in this forever. I only know what I’ve heard, and I’m going to make a little money while the rumors are going around. Then I’m going to quietly get out, and as silently steal away. It may be a frost, but I’ll be in sunny climes, literally and figuratively speaking. I have a goal set for myself, and when I reach that, in five years, I’m going to buy the village where my grandfather was born, in Ireland, and king it there. Catch salmon and drink whiskey the rest of my life. I haven’t really got the acquisitive instinct. I’m not quite a bum, but I’m far from being an Andrew Mellon.”
“I understand completely. I have no desire to live in Ireland. I’d be so outnumbered. But I’m doing what you’re planning to do.”
Geraldine Lockwood and Kathleen O’Byrne were carrying on a separate conversation, adventures in shopping the topic, and now Kathleen said: “George, I overheard the last part. What are you doing that Ned is planning to do? I’d like to know, because it would give me an inkling of Ned’s plans.”
“Aren’t you in on Ned’s plans, either?” said Geraldine.
“Either? You’re always in on my plans, Geraldine,” said George.
“No. I get announcements, but I’m not in on the planning,” said Geraldine . . .
Later, in their room at the hotel, George Lockwood said: “That was a surprising remark you made, about not being in on my plans. Did you mean it, or was that just the Chianti? I think Joe fortifies his Chianti just a touch.”
“Oh, I might have made that remark without Chianti. Without a cup of tea. Why?”
“Nothing. It was just one of those statements that women make in front of other people that they’d never make in private. When it’s just the husband and wife alone, a statement like that would lead to an argument. In public, you try to avoid arguments. So, since you preferred to make it in public, you obviously wish to avoid an argument on the subject. Goodnight, Geraldine. I won’t disturb you in the morning. I’m going downtown early and I’ll be gone all day. I’ll have my breakfast in the diningroom.”
“Very well. Goodnight, George.”
Dinner at Wilma Lockwood’s the next night was followed by auction bridge, so that the formality between George and Geraldine Lockwood, that had carried over from the previous night, was not noticeable to the host and hostess. Back in the hotel room again Geraldine said: “If there’s anything wrong between those two, I didn’t notice it. What they’re thinking about us is another matter.”
“Quite. I’m going back to Swedish Haven tomorrow. Would you care to come with me?”
“No thanks. If you’ll send the car, I’ll drive down on Saturday.”
“Saturday? Well, I suggest you have Andrew check and see what football games are being played Saturday. If there are games in Easton or Bethlehem, or Allentown, you’ll run into traffic.”
“I don’t care how long I take.”
“Very well.”
“Maybe you’ll have thawed out by then. But of course I may be quite cold, after that long drive and all.”
“Both things are possible,” he said. “If I don’t see you in the morning, I’ll see you Saturday. Goodnight.”
In the morning he left a note for her:
G.—I shall send Andrew to New York today so that you can leave as early as you like tomorrow. Will tell DeBorio to reserve room for Andrew at Roosevelt Hotel.—G.L.
George Lockwood obtained the keys for the Packard from the Reading stationmaster and was home in mid-afternoon. “Wash the Packard, Andrew, and then I want you to drive to New York. There’ll be a room for you at the Roosevelt Hotel, and when you get there, telephone Mrs. Lockwood. She’s at the Carstairs, and she’ll undoubtedly have a great many bundles to bring home. She’ll let you know what time you’ll be leaving tomorrow. Take the Pierce-Arrow. It has the most room.”
“Mrs. Lockwood don’t like the Pierce for long drives. She complains it’s drafty.”
“She’ll need the Pierce-Arrow. If the weather’s bad you can put up the side curtains, and take along enough robes.”
“I was just thinking, the Lincoln contains as much room, if there’s nobody else sitting in the back.”
“Is that what you were thinking? You don’t mind a little fresh air, do you, Andrew?”
“No, not me. Mrs. Lockwood, though. She does.” He smiled.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Well, just between you and I, and she wouldn’t like it if I repeated this. But it isn’t only the draftiness in the Pierce. She complains it makes her look older, riding in the Pierce. And when you think of some of the old ladies in Gibbsville with their Pierces—that car’s an awful gas-eater, too, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Who’s been talking to you, Andrew? The Cadillac salesman? Fliegler? If that’s the case, give up. I’ll never buy a Cadillac, so you and Luther Fliegler stop conspiring. Now will you give my car a wash, and then get started for New York?”
“Nobody else will offer you seven hundred for the Pierce,” said Andrew.
“It isn’t worth seven hundred, therefore the Cadillac is overpriced.”
“They only give Mrs. Hofman three hundred for her Pierce, the same year as ours. Old Mrs. Hofman.”
“And that’s all it was worth, today. Give up, Andrew. You may get your two percent, but not on a Cadillac. I won’t have one in my garage.”
“Well, if you say so, sir,” said Andrew.
“While all this talking’s been going on there was something I wanted to ask you,” said George Lockwood. He stood before Andrew, who was taking off his shoes and getting into his gumboots. “Oh, yes. Was there any more about the boy that was killed?”
“They had the trial last night.”
“You mean the coroner’s inquest.”
“Yes. In the paper this morning it just said accidental death. They had the funeral yesterday. I heard you paid for it.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“In town.”
“Well, as a matter of fact I did, but people don’t have to know those things,” said George Lockwood.
“It was a good thing to do, in my opinion,” said Andrew. “There’s no law compelling you to do it, but people felt better about it.”
“That isn’t why I did it.”
“Oh, I know that well enough. But that’s why it was a good thing to do.”
“Say it. What’s on your mind?”
Andrew stood up. “Well, nobody could say it was your fault. I don’t mean to hint that it was. But one or two said the wall was high enough to keep people out. You didn’t need the spikes.”
“I see. What else did they say?”
“That was all.”
“I think there was more.”
“Well, there was more, but along the same lines. They said the spikes weren’t necessary. They said that last spring, and since Tuesday they said it all over again. Here you been living all your life in a house with only a little iron fence—I’m telling you what I heard. Not my opinion. All your life here, out in the open where people can see everything going on. Then all of a sudden you decide to build a house out in the Valley. You put up a high wall, and on top of the wall you put spikes. And to cap the climax, you knock all the houses down on Oscar Dietrich’s old farm. One fellow said, what comes over a man that he wants all that secrecy?” Andrew paused.