“Have you done anything yet, Homer?” said Flo. “If so, what?”
“As the senior member of the family,” Junior said, “Father drinks gin and devises ways to slaughter Brewster.”
“Junior,” said Aunt Madge, “you shouldn’t say things like that about your father, even when they’re true.”
“He’s an insolent whelp,” Uncle Homer said. “He shows absolutely no respect.”
“Worse than that,” Hester said, “he shows absolutely no brains or initiative. Junior, you are certainly the worst of the lot. So far as I know, you have done nothing about anything, and in my opinion it is high time you were doing something.”
“I can’t think of anything to do,” Junior said. “You always think of everything first.”
“That’s because I have something to think with.”
“Think of something for me, then. I’d be willing to do something if only someone would tell me what.”
“Well, it will have to be something relatively simple, and I think I know just the thing. It is extremely important now that we keep as close watch as possible on Senorita Fogarty, and you are the one to do it. In Grandfather’s back yard there is an old garden house which you can approach from the rear without being seen, if you are careful. From there, you can observe the back of the house and report what goes on in the back yard, especially between Senorita Fogarty and the stud.”
“Do you mean that I’m expected to hide in a garden house and spy on the orgies of two Chihuahuas?”
“You see? There you go first thing. I suggest something useful for you to do, and you immediately begin trying to get out of it.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it, but someone will have to bring me a hot lunch.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd. It isn’t necessary for you to be on duty all day long. Crump takes Senorita Fogarty to the park in the mornings, and so I would suggest an hour or two in the afternoon as being best for observation.”
“All right,” said Junior, “but I may not be able to make it every afternoon.”
“I don’t see why not,” Uncle Homer said. “You never do anything else.”
“That’s that, then. Junior will spy, and I will develop my alternate plan, and Mother can work on old Brewster, if she will, and for the rest of you, it must be a period of watchful waiting.” Hester stood up in what was clearly a movement of dismissal. “And now I am going to take a hot bath, as I intended to do before.”
“If you like,” said Junior, “I’ll come and scrub your back.”
“Control yourself, Junior,” Aunt Madge said. “Hester, it’s shameless of you to incite him so.”
“He’s a hopeless bounder,” said Uncle Homer. “He’s as insatiable as Crump’s stud.”
Hester walked into the bedroom and closed the door. Pretty soon there was the sound of water running into the tub. Flo sighed and stood up.
“Hester’s a brilliant girl, but obstinate,” she said. “I can tell you right now that she won’t come out until we are gone, and so we may as well go.”
“First,” said Uncle Homer, “I believe I’ll just look around and see if I can locate a drink of gin.”
14
After a full month of devising ingenious schemes for slaughtering Brewster, who was hardly more guilty of any offense than Senorita Fogarty herself, Uncle Homer was full to his gills with furies and frustrations, as well as, most of the time, gin. During this time, he was posted sporadically on current events by Hester, who had apparently worked out a method of observing Crump and Senorita in the mornings, and by Junior, engaged in desultory espionage in the afternoons. It must be stated that there was, on the whole, very little to report, and practically nothing of an optimistic character.
According to Hester, Senorita Fogarty was, to all appearances, sustaining a state of disgusting health. The only cheerful note in this was the incidental intelligence that she was also sustaining an apparent state of maidenhood, if not chastity. Uncle Homer knew little about dogs in general and less about Chihuahuas in particular, but he supposed that Senorita’s temporary immunity to motherhood had something to do with periods of heat, which Senorita was presumably in and out of on a peculiar schedule of some sort. He also played hopefully with the idea of sterility, but he had no faith in it.
The afternoon espionage added little to Uncle Homer’s sum of knowledge. The period of Junior’s duty corresponded exactly to the time during which he had previously taken an after-lunch nap, and Uncle Homer soon began to suspect that he had merely transferred the practice from bedroom to garden house. The boy was as empty of pertinent intelligence as a bass drum.
Anyhow, fretting from ignorance and inactivity, a condition which did not ordinarily disturb him, Uncle Homer decided at last to do something on his own. After all, he was the head of the family, and it was his right, even his duty, to participate in family affairs. It was all well enough to put matters for the most part into the hands of clever youngsters like Hester, but they needed, in the long run, the stability and sagacity of age and experience. The only trouble was that Uncle Homer, like Junior, didn’t know what to do. On the basis of age and experience, supported by gin, he tried to decide, and the best decision he could reach, after serious thought, was to call on the Crumps and observe personally whatever was to be observed.
Having reached the decision, he prepared himself, along about the cocktail hour one afternoon, and went. He was uncertain of his reception, inasmuch as he had made himself persona non grata by his rash threats against Crump’s life, but he depended upon his family status to gain him admission and perhaps a drink, although he doubted the latter concession seriously, and was resigned to a brief draught. At any rate, polished and primed, he was shortly prodding the bell at the front door of Grandfather Hunter’s hideous stack, and so it came to pass, as the old tales have it, that it was no one but he, Uncle Homer Hunter himself, who encountered the first big break in the trying case, and carried away, in due time, the first stupendous news.
The door was opened to him, not by Crump or Mrs. Crump, but by a seedy little man, somewhat resembling a spider covered with cobwebs, who had a stethoscope hanging from his ears. This was, Uncle Homer knew, Sigmund Quinn, M. D., Grandfather Hunter’s personal physician for about forty years, and he removed the stethoscope from his ears and peered at Uncle Homer, whose heart had leaped with sudden hope, forgetful of the fact that Dr. Quinn was not a veterinarian.
“Well, Dr. Quinn,” Uncle Homer said, “what brings you here? Nothing critical, I trust.”
“It’s Homer, isn’t it? Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there ringing the infernal bell. Come in.”
Uncle Homer entered, removing his hat and discarding his stick in the hall.
“Is someone ill?” he said.
“No,” said Quinn.
“I see. You are merely making a social call on the Crumps.”
“Don’t be an ass. People who are making social calls don’t presume to answer doorbells. Why the devil should I make a social call on the Crumps?”
Uncle Homer didn’t know and was forced to admit it. Curiosity demanded an explanation of Quinn’s presence, however, and Uncle Homer tried to phrase a discreet question that remained unspoken, being anticipated.
“Someone’s dead,” Quinn said.
Uncle Homer nearly staggered. Dedicated to the elimination of Senorita Fogarty, he assumed rashly that it was she who had died, stoked at last with cyanide peanuts. It would be just like the Crumps, considering Senorita’s position and importance, to insist upon the best medical attendant, and just like them, moreover, to assume that old Quinn was it, or anything like it. Thus deluded by hope, he was deserted by sagacity.