We don’t want to do anything that might trigger another killing. This guy’s no joke, Smitty.”
There was a long silence.
Ludwig finally sighed. “Maybe I can put the dog story off a couple of days,” he said in a low voice.
Ridder smiled. “That’s great. Great.” He squeezed Smitty’s shoulder again.
“You mentioned two things,” Ludwig said a little weakly.
“That’s right, I did. Okay. I was thinking—again, this is just a suggestion, Smitty—that you could fill the gap with a story on Dr. Stanton Chauncy. Everybody loves a little attention, and this guy’s no exception. The project— maybe it’s better not to go into that too much. But a story on
“It’s not a bad idea,” Ludwig murmured. And, in fact, it really wasn’t a bad idea. If the guy proved to be interesting it would make a good story, and it was just the kind of thing people wanted to read. The future of the town was always the number one topic of conversation in Medicine Creek.
“Great. He’s going to be here in five minutes. I’ll introduce you, then leave you two alone.”
“Fine.” Ludwig swallowed again.
Ridder finally released his grip on Ludwig’s shoulder. He felt a cold patch where the warm, moist hand had been. “You’re a good guy, Smitty.”
“Right.”
Just then the sheriff’s radio crackled to life. Hazen pulled it off his belt and pressed the receive button. Ludwig could hear Tad’s tinny voice giving the sheriff the morning’s incident report. “Some joker let the air out of the tires of the football coach’s car,” came Tad’s voice.
“Next,” said Hazen.
“Another dead dog. This one reported by the side of the road.”
“Christ. Next.”
“Willie Stott’s wife says he didn’t come home last night.”
The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Check with Swede at the Wagon Wheel. He’s probably sleeping it off in the back room again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll check out the dog myself.”
“It’s two and a half miles out the
“Check.”
Hazen shoved the radio back into his belt, ground out his cigarette in an ashtray, swept his hat off the empty seat next to him, fitted it to his head, and stood. “See you, Art. Smitty, thanks. Gotta run.”
The sheriff left, and then, as if on cue, Dr. Stanton Chauncy materialized at the far end of the bowling alley, glancing around.
Ridder called, waved at him through the glass. Chauncy nodded and walked past the alleys and into the Castle Club. He had the same stiff walk Ludwig had noticed at the Sociable. The man peered at the plastic decor and Ludwig thought he could see a flicker of something in his eyes: amusement? contempt?
Ridder rose and so did Ludwig.
“Don’t get up on my account,” Chauncy said. He shook their hands and they all sat down.
“Dr. Chauncy,” Ridder began, “I want to introduce to you Smit Ludwig from the
Ludwig found a pair of rather cool blue eyes turned on him. “That must be very interesting for you, Mr. Ludwig.”
“Call him Smitty. We don’t go on ceremony in Medicine Creek. We’re a friendly town.”
“Thank you, Art.” Chauncy turned to Ludwig. “Smitty, I hope you’ll call me Stan.”
Ridder spoke before Ludwig could answer. “Stan, listen. Smitty wants to do a story on you and I have to run, so I’ll leave you here. Order what you like; bill’s on me.”
In a moment Ridder was gone, and Chauncy had turned his two dry eyes back on Ludwig. For a moment, Ludwig wondered what he was waiting for. Then he remembered he was supposed to do an interview. He pulled out his steno book, fished out a pen.
“If you don’t mind, I prefer to work with questions presented to me ahead of time,” said Chauncy.
“I wish we were that organized,” said Ludwig, mustering a smile.
Chauncy did not smile. “Tell me what kind of story you had in mind.”
“It would be a profile, basically. You know, the man behind the project and all that.”
There was a silence. “We’re dealing with a sensitive subject. It has to be handled
“It would be a favorable, uncontroversial article, focusing on you, not on the details of the experimental field.”
Chauncy thought a moment. “I’ll have to see the piece before it runs.”
