Текст книги "The Mind-­Twisters Affair "

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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NAPOLEON FOUND HIMSELF becoming fascinated with some of the folklore of Midford. Unfortunately, the history had been written on the occasion of the town's centennial in 1937, and had never been updated.

Some of the more interesting historical characters seemed to belong to the Whateley family. Napoleon wondered if Rita's friend was a relative. According to the history, one Jabez Whateley, together with his wife and son, had migrated to Midford from Salem, Massachusetts just after the turn of the century. He had built a duplicate of the original Whateley mansion; a somewhat bizarre structure, according to the description given. Apparently the elder Whateley's refusal to become neighborly had roused the resentment of local citizens; before long there were rumors, faithfully set down in the history, that the Whateleys were devil-worshippers and worse. Midford residents hurrying past the Whateley house after dark had reported strange sights and sounds. The death or disappearance of any farm animal for miles around was instantly attributed to Jabez Whateley's evil influence.

Neighborhood fear had culminated one night when the daughter of Whateley's nearest neighbor failed to show up for supper. A mob had formed, ready to storm the Whateley mansion, but it had been broken up by the prompt and firm action of the sheriff and a hastily assembled lot of deputies. The next day the distraught parents had received a telephone call from the missing girl, announcing that she had eloped with the minister's son. Predictably, the reaction of the local populace was a baffled rage at being balked. Whateley's reputation remained sinister until he died, whereupon his son, Jabez Junior, had inherited the hostility along with the mansion.

Napoleon considered the story thoughtfully before delving into the file of newspapers. Active dislike of strangers in Midford was evidently an ancient and honorable tradition. Could Thrush have somehow persuaded Midford residents that U.N.C.L.E. was connected with the iniquitous Whateley family? It might be wise to interview the current Jabez Whateley.

The file of newspapers proved little more help than the history. Napoleon was amused to note that the paper, after beginning life as The Midford Press, had changed its title to The Midford Paper. "Everyone," the editor explained, calls it 'the Midford paper,' so why not name it that?"

The only really interesting fact Napoleon discovered was that Jabez Whateley had recently built a small television station to serve Midford and the surrounding area. The area in question was one of freak reception in which only the most elaborate antenna array could pick up the network-affiliated stations in South Bend, Fort Wayne, and Indianapolis. Whateley's transmitter in Bippus was received with loud public acclaim. Residents may not have become fully reconciled to Whateley, but they apparently refrained from making their feelings public. Snide comments in the newspaper had ceased after station WHPL-TV went on the air.

Napoleon looked up from the desk as the office door opened and Sascha Curtis staggered in with a huge cardboard box in his arms. He put the box down and dropped onto a convenient couch.

"Some of your samples," he explained. "There are ten more like it in my classroom; they're beginning to get in the way when I conduct classes."

Napoleon frowned. "You're sure you have the correct definition of sample? We aren't stocking up against atomic attack, you know."

Curtis reached into the box and pulled out a jar of strawberry preserves. "We could hardly ask the proprietor to spread some on a cracker for us. Do you have any idea of the variety of goods stocked by the average grocery store? We haven't even started on the restaurants."

"Mr. Waverly isn't going to be at all happy with the cost of flying this stuff to New York. Couldn't you extract a small sample from each can or jar and put it in a collecting bottle or test tube or something?"

"We need all those for our samples from the restaurants, vending machines, water supply, and so on. Even if we could get more test tubes and collecting bottles, they aren't the cheapest products in the world. Incidentally, I assume I'll be reimbursed for the cost of all this stuff?"

Napoleon winced. "Yes, we'll pay you for them, if the cost comes out of my salary – and it might. Could I further impose on you to the extent of borrowing a car to get all this stuff to the airport when it's packed?"

Before Curtis could answer, Napoleon's communicator warbled from his coat pocket. "Solo here," he said.

"Ah, Mr. Solo," said Waverly. "Mr. Kuryakin will be back with you shortly. He seems fully recovered from the drug. We've arranged for him to arrive in Fort Wayne on the 9 flight this evening. Dr. Armden has been a little slower to recover, but he's improving. He and his wife are being suitably guarded, of course."

"Could you also make arrangements to have ten…" Napoleon paused as Curtis shook his head violently and held up three fingers. "Thirteen?" Curtis nodded. "Thirteen cases of food and drink samples flown to New York?"

"Thirteen eases, Mr. Solo? You said you were obtaining samples, not..."

"Not storing up against atomic attack," Napoleon finished for him. "I know, sir, but do you realize the variety of goods stocked by the average grocery store? We had to be thorough."

"Of course, Mr. Solo, but thirteen cases!"

"Also," Napoleon added, "there is the matter of reimbursing Professor Curtis for his purchase of the sample and the various test tubes and collecting bottles used to transport some of them."

Mr. Waverly sighed. "I suppose it can't be helped. The battle against the forces of evil must never flag lack of finances. Heaven knows I've had sufficient practice in justifying your expenditures before the Board Directors; I should be able to explain this one, too." He sounded somewhat doubtful.

"Thank you, sir. We should have the samples packed in time to take them to the airport when we meet Illya."

"Very well, Mr. Solo. I'll make the proper arrangements here." The communicator went dead.

Illya stared at the car, which towered above the others in the airport parking lot, giving him the impression that he could have driven the U.N.C.L.E. car underneath it without touching anything.

"It's a Checker," Rita explained. She climbed into the driver's seat with Napoleon on her right. Illya got into the back and wandered about for a short time before sitting down.

"Where's the meter?" he inquired.

"You're too late," Napoleon told him. "I said the same thing the first time I rode in it."

"I know agents start to think alike when they've been together long enough," Illya complained. "But I had hoped for a better fate. Do we have time to stop at a restaurant? I didn't eat at all while I was drugged and I have some catching up to do. The meal on the plane was just an appetizer."

"If you'll wait until we get back to Midford," Napoleon said encouragingly, "Professor Curtis has prepared a delicious watercress salad."

Rita laughed as she swung the car onto the highway. "I know a good place here; I guess I can ignore my diet for once."

A few minutes later, the three were seated at a well-lit table and Napoleon was filling Illya in on his recent activity.

"I want to talk to Whateley," he concluded. "Logically, there's no connection between the Whateley family and U.N.C.L.E. But sometimes logical explanations fail to satisfy me."

Rita had listened with interest; now she spoke. "I can take you to see Jabez; didn't know you were interested. He's an odd sort, but his daughter Flavia will be delighted. I've been telling her about you. I did tell you that she's a friend?"

Napoleon nodded.

"I'd planned to go out there tomorrow anyway," Rita continued. "There's a Halloween festival coming up that we're both working on; you two can come along and quiz Jabez." She laughed. "I'll be interested to know what sort of answers you get."

Illya had been quietly thoughtful since Napoleon had mentioned the Whateley television station. Now he spoke slowly. "I had time to think while I was recovering. Once the drug began to wear off my mind was clear, but I just didn't have any urge to communicate. Then before I left New York I talked with some of the communications experts in Section Four. Napoleon, what do you think of subliminal suggestions to explain all this? I couldn't think how they would be delivered, but with only one TV station in the area, it wouldn't be too hard to arrange. I'd been thinking of movies, but I don't know what percentage of the populace attends movies regularly. TV simplifies matters."

Napoleon frowned. "I thought they had proved that subliminal advertising wasn't particularly effective."

"By itself, no; but don't forget the effects of the drug. A combination of the two could explain things pretty well."

Napoleon was studying the idea when Rita reached over and tapped his arm. "If you want to meet Jabez Whateley," she informed him, "he just walked in the door." Without waiting for an answer, she began waving frantically at an erect, white-haired man wearing a black suit and an opera cape. He spotted Rita and his cadaverous features readjusted themselves into a wintry smile as he approached their table.

"Miss Berman," he said, bowing slightly. "How pleasant to see you." The voice was deep, with careful enunciation and a tone that bad a sepulchral quality. It was, Napoleon decided, an ominous voice; one which did not match the innocuous topics of conversation. Whateley answered questions about his daughter and mentioned that parts of the forthcoming Halloween pageant would be shown on his television station.

"What better way to enhance the Whateley reputation?" he said with a sinister chuckle.

Rita almost forgot to introduce the two agents. Whateley bowed formally to the men.

"I've heard of your organization," he said quietly. "A veritable bulwark against the forces of evil." The sinister chuckle came again. "Or at least, against the forces of earthly evil."

Napoleon glanced at Rita, who was busily suppressing a giggle. "I'm afraid earthly evil keeps us busy enough at present," he replied. "One thing at a time, and all that."

"I doubt that Mr. Waverly would approve any budgetary items for the suppression of supernatural evil," Illya commented. "Though considering his penchant for insisting that all flights be made by coach, I suppose he might be willing to look into the matter of broomsticks."

"Of course, gentlemen," Whateley said. "No one believes in evil that they can't see. If it doesn't come neatly packaged and labeled, as in the case of your rival, Thrush, everyone tends to ignore it. It's very difficult to combat something that one is ignoring." He chuckled again.

Napoleon watched Whateley closely while keeping a pleasant smile on his face. "I understand your father had just the opposite problem. People believed in an evil that didn't exist, and were willing to lynch him for it."

Whateley shrugged skeletally. "People were more ready to believe in things of the spirit fifty years ago," he said. "Not to mention that father contributed heavily to his own legend; he was positively delighted at the opportunity to appear exotically evil. I'm afraid that I seem to have inherited the tendency." He swirled his cape dramatically.

Napoleon smiled understandingly.

"Of course," Whateley continued, eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agents speculatively, "there is always the possibility that the local residents were right. The old gods were not a benevolent sort. A man who could invoke their aid would be a powerful figure of evil indeed."

"Old gods?" Napoleon inquired.

"Yes, Mr. Solo. There were gods before Jehovah, and humanity did not always give even lip-service to the current ideals of brotherhood and tolerance. What does a god who has lost his worshippers do, Mr. Solo? He can no longer act, but, being immortal, he cannot die, either. He exists in a formless limbo. There are gods waiting there, Mr. Solo; beings so powerful, and so evil, that all mankind might not withstand them if they returned."

Napoleon nodded noncommittally. "I have a feeling," he said, "that the people of Midford would be willing to believe in the old gods. They are certainly willing enough to believe that U.N.C.L.E. is in league with the devil."

Whateley looked interested. "That seems unusual. You're generally regarded as being on the, ah, other side, aren't you? Certainly you don't appear very diabolical. Why would anyone consider you evil?"

"We haven't found a reason," Napoleon said. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. As the object of a hate campaign of your own, I thought you might be able to shed some light on the subject."

Whateley shook his head. "I'm afraid not; the reason for the dislike of the Whateleys is all too plain. Is this U.N.C.L.E. phobia a recent phenomenon?"

"Apparently. In fact, we're beginning to suspect that it's not natural; that a drug of some kind may be involved."

Whateley chuckled again, and Illya involuntarily shivered. "Or perhaps an evil spell, Mr. Solo? An enchantment? I didn't realize that secret agents were so sensitive about their images."

Napoleon looked hurt. "Unlike some organizations," he explained, "we occasionally must depend on public good will. But whatever the problem is, we'll manage to get it solved." He attempted to look confident and succeeded in appearing slightly fatuous.

"You mean that both of you are in Midford simply to find out why people don't like U.N.C.L.E.? I should think there would be more serious calls on your time. I suppose I could sell you some advertising time on my TV station and you could get a good public relations firm to handle the case. That sort of thing does wonders for General Motors, I understand."

"I'm afraid our budget would never stand for it." Napoleon sighed dramatically. "We sometimes have trouble when our hotel bill lists an extra for a TV set in the room; if we can't afford to watch it, I'm sure we could never afford to buy time on it."

"That shouldn't bother you in Midford," Whateley suggested. "The facilities of the local hotel are not the most up-to-date."

"We aren't staying at the hotel, though," Napoleon said.

"The manager is one of the townspeople who dislikes U.N.C.L.E. Currently we're staying with Rita's cousin, but..." He let his voice trail off.

"That's an inconvenient base of operations," Whateley said. "It's really quite distant from Midford." He paused thoughtfully. "Why don't you accept my hospitality? I have a fine house not too far from town; there's just Flavia and myself and a small domestic staff. With a few lovely exceptions," he bowed toward Rita, "we don't have visitors. I'm afraid the Whateleys are still not considered a part of the community."

Napoleon studied the offer. "It might be best, if we wouldn't disturb you."

"Not at all, not at all." Whateley smiled, and Napoleon discovered that his smile could be as sinister as his chuckle. 'I'm sure Miss Berman can vouch for my character, if you have any lingering doubts."

Rita nodded agreeably. "You'll like it there. If you want to look up any more local history, I'm sure the Whateley library contains at least as many volumes as the university library; perhaps more."

Whateley smiled in what might be construed as delight. "Are you fellow bibliophiles? Delightful. I do have a quite extensive and, er, unusual library. You must avail yourselves of it."

"Very well," Napoleon agreed. "What time tomorrow should we arrive?"

"It's still early," Whateley responded, pulling a huge gold watch from a vest pocket and glancing at it. "You could easily come back with me as soon as we've finished the meal."

Napoleon shook his head. "I don't think we should. I'm afraid Mr. Thompson might be somewhat annoyed by all the packing and moving at this late hour. He's been very considerate, and I wouldn't want to disturb him."

"I see," said Whateley. "Having met Lem Thompson, I can well understand. Tomorrow, then; any time that suits your convenience. You come, too," he said, turning to Rita. "Flavia wanted to ask you something about costumes for the pageant."

Rita nodded, and Whateley stalked away from the table, paused momentarily at the door to whirl his cape about his shoulders in a theatrical gesture, and departed into the night.

"He forgot to get anything to eat," Illya commented.

"True," Napoleon agreed. "I think he was too interested in maneuvering us into accepting his invitation to stay with him."

"Perhaps," said Illya. "But you were working just as hard to maneuver him into issuing the invitation, and it didn't spoil your appetite."

"You noticed, did you? Well, it takes a devious mind to know one. I'd like to be able to keep an eye on Jabez Whateley. Your idea of subliminal suggestions, his new TV station and his showing up here so conveniently: it all strikes me as a pretty healthy coincidence."

Illya nodded. "If he isn't involved, his place sounds like a good base. If he is, then it will be easier to keep an eye on him while he thinks he's keeping an eye on us. Of course, he isn't stupid. We suspect him, but he knows that we suspect him, and since we know that he knows…"

"Never mind," Napoleon said as he rose and picked up the check. "You know, we really are beginning to think alike.

"Incidentally, how many hours a day does Whateley's television station broadcast?" Napoleon asked as Rita swung the car into Lem Thompson's driveway.

"About twelve, I think," she replied.

"What time does it go off the air?"

Rita shrugged. "That depends on what part of the country you live in. Here in Midford, it goes off at midnight."

Illya looked baffled. "It broadcasts to different areas at different times?"

"Not really," Rita explained. "It's just that part of the area is on Eastern Standard time, and part of it is on Central Standard. Then there's one section on Central Daylight, but that's the same as Eastern Standard. I think." She paused and frowned thoughtfully. "Over by Hunterton you get into Eastern Daylight in the summer, but I think they've switched back to Eastern Standard now. Then a few farmers still set their clocks on Sun Time, which is a half hour faster than Central Standard. Or is it a half hour slower?" She paused again.

Napoleon blinked. "It seems awfully confusing."

"Very. But it has its advantages. One of the more enterprising students at the university has been making good money by selling mimeographed copies of his conversion table. So people in Midford can tell when the stores will close in Bippus and vice versa."

"But I thought time zones had been standardized by law," Illya said.

"Oh, they have," Rita said casually. "But can you see someone standardizing Lem Thompson? This state has been arguing over the standard time zones for the past five years, and they're no closer to an agreement now than they were when they started."

"I see your point," Napoleon admitted. "Where is this TV station, anyway? The newspaper just said Bippus."

"You can't miss it," Rita informed them with the cheery confidence of someone who has never tried to follow directions. "It's right downtown, across from the hotel. Why? Are you going to raid it?" Eagerness for adventure was apparent in her voice.

"Eventually," said Napoleon. "But not until we have something a little more definite to go on."

"Yes," Illya added helpfully. "We're having enough image problems now; imagine what would happen if we were caught burglarizing an innocent TV station."

Rita looked unconvinced, but failed to pursue the subject as the agents got out of the car. With a wave, she drove off, and the looming hulk of the Checker disappeared into the darkness.

"Well, let's go," Napoleon said.

"Aren't you the mad, impetuous boy, though," said Illya.

Napoleon shrugged. "If you'd prefer to wait until Rita thinks of a good excuse to come along..."

They walked to the U.N.C.L.E. car.

Section III: "You're Anxious to End Your Career?"

Chapter 9

"If I Didn't Know Better, I'd Say This Was A Chain"

THE OFFICES OF WHPL-TV occupied the second floor over the Gackenheimer Feed Store. Napoleon and Illya strolled by the front of the building, trying to look as though they had legitimate business on the totally deserted street at two o'clock in the morning. Napoleon halted to inspect a sign advertising Candied Baby Pig Pusher. "I'd think it would be hard to get hooked on candied baby pigs," he commented. "Though I've heard that chocolate covered ants are considered a delicacy in some circles."

Illya grimaced and urged Napoleon along to the alley next to the building. The agents disappeared into it.

"I wonder if they'll have a watchman?" Illya asked.

"A possibility, if Thrush is involved," said Napoleon. "I don't think they're expecting us, though. Having a watchman tends to make people wonder what sort of valuables need to be watched. We might be lucky. This stairway seems to be what we're looking for. You keep a lookout down here while I see about the door."

The door at the top of the stairs was, of course, locked. As quiet as the town was, blowing the lock would attract too much unwanted attention. After studying the lock by the light of his small flashlight, Napoleon extracted a piece of thin wire from a coat pocket and inserted it in the keyhole. After some experimental poking he pulled the wire back out, bent it to shape, and reinserted it. Some experimental twists revealed the need for further modifications. The next trial produced the satisfying sound of the bolt being withdrawn. He gestured to Illya, who quickly joined him.

"I'm going inside," Napoleon said. "You stay here. If I run into trouble, I'll make enough noise for you to hear and come bail me out. If someone starts investigating from outside, you make enough noise to warn me."

"You didn't say anything about bailing me out," Illya complained.

"Anyone you run into is likely to be an officer of the law, in which case I'll bail you out in the morning. Just pretend you're a burglar and keep U.N.C.L.E.'s image untarnished."

Illya nodded unhappily and tried to look like a burglar. Napoleon switched on his light and moved into the studio.

The place was about what he had expected: some offices, an art department for local advertising, a couple of small sound stages for live programming, a film library. Making his way into the library, he found the films neatly racked and a portable viewer for examining film strips set up on a table. If Thrush is involved, he thought, they're going out of their way to be helpful.

On inspection, the majority of the films turned out to be commercials. They were filed by sponsor name; a thorough search failed to reveal the cross-index by program that he expected. Not that it made much difference. Professor Curtis had mentioned a local news broadcast that almost everyone watched, but subliminal messages were as likely to appear in one film as another.

He began selecting films at random and running them through the viewer.

To his surprise, he found subliminal messages in the first film, and the second, and the third. It began to look as though every advertising film in the room had been tampered with by Thrush. Additional single frames had been spliced into the films, so that each would be shown just long enough for the viewer's subconscious to pick up the message. Most of the messages were just two words, such as "U.N.C.L.E. Communist," or "U.N.C.L.E. Killers." Others simply had the U.N.C.L.E name overlayed across photos of gangsters, hooded executioners, and the like.

He found a few frames that showed skid row bums, panhandling in one frame, mugging someone in another, and some which seemed to portray Thrush's favorite axiom, "Might is Right." The Thrush name was never mentioned, but it seemed obvious that they were the originators of the messages. Apparently in addition to castigating U.N.C.L.E., they were attempting to implant a general attitude which would make the citizens more receptive to Thrush domination in the name of strong, efficient government. There might be other films implicating Thrust directly, but he had found what he suspected. It wouldn't do to jeopardize a successful mission by making protracted examinations of all the films in stock.

He carefully replaced the films where he had found them, made sure the viewer was in its original position, and rejoined Illya at the back door. After locking the door behind them, they returned to their car and, as they drove back to Lem Thompson's farm, they reported their success to Waverly.

The warbling of his communicator awakened Napoleon the next morning. He groped around on the table next to the bed and eventually located the device.

"Solo here," he mumbled.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo," came the precise voice of Waverly. Napoleon shook his head and untangled himself from the covers enough to sit up.

"The analysis of the food and drink samples you sent us has been completed," Waverly continued. "With most interesting results."

"So soon?" The efficiency of the U.N.C.L.E. lab technicians never ceased to amaze Napoleon.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, and a pretty penny of overtime it cost us, too. But I'm happy to say it was not spent in vain. The drug found previously in Mr. Kuryakin and Dr. Armden was present in every sample of liquid from Midford vending machines."

"Were those the only positive samples?" Napoleon asked.

"The only ones, Mr. Solo. Do you know who services the vending machines in Midford?"

"No sir, but it shouldn't be difficult to find out. Actually, vending machines explain many of our problems, including the big one of why there was no pattern as to who was affected. We didn't think to include a question on whether or not the individual patronized vending machines. And they would be ideal for conversion of almost everyone in a big industrial plant like Falco."

"Umm, yes," Waverly agreed. "But it does not explain what Thrush is planning. It seems an unlikely way for them to raise an army to do battle with U.N.C.L.E., especially since we have found no similar situations any where else in the world."

Napoleon reluctantly agreed. "But we may know more once we've located the vending machine company. I'd be willing to bet that Jabez Whateley has a hand in it somewhere."

"I don't recall that name, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon explained their meeting with Whateley.

"Incidentally," he added, "I think it would be a good idea to provide Illya with more freedom of action. There is no need for both of us to remain under Whateley's eye. After we have moved, I'll report to you. When I do, you order Illya back to New York. I'll make sure Whateley is listening. Then Illya can go back to Thompson's, away from prying eyes. The limelight will be focused on me, and Illya will be free to skulk about and run down any leads I uncover."

"Very well, Mr. Solo. I will await your call."

As Napoleon turned the car into the long driveway leading to Jabez Whateley's home, he decided that Rita's use of the term "mansion" had not been an exaggeration. The house was a huge, rambling affair. The gravel drive curved around the front yard, with an extension at one side leading to an oversized garage in the rear. A few, outbuildings were visible beyond. House and garage were covered with ivy; a fence, sagging under a load of the same vines, straggled off at one side of the yard. Napoleon started to apply the brakes in front of the house, but the skeletal form of Whateley appeared and motioned for him to bring the car back to the garage.

"Glad you could make it, gentlemen," Whateley said as the agents got out of the car. "You're just in time for what is called supper in these latitudes. I'm sure you will appreciate a simple, nourishing meal after a long day of agenting." He smiled in his usual sinister fashion and motioned them to a door. It opened on a broad hallway that apparently ran the length of the house.

Whateley led them to an enormous living room, dominated by a huge fireplace. Napoleon's eye was caught by the picturesque but morbid paintings adorning the walls. A reproduction of Bosch's "Garden of Delights" hung over the fireplace, and he noted works by Hogarth, Dore, Klee, and Prosser. Whateley noticed his gaze and brought forth his sinister chuckle.

"I find they lend a homey touch and a certain individuality all too often lacking in most modern homes," he said. "Just make yourselves at home while I check on Casimir. He's a good cook, but he does need prodding." With that, he disappeared down the hail, leaving the agents on their own.

After a few minutes inspecting the paintings, both agents began wandering idly about. Just off the living room, they came upon a large entrance foyer with a wide marble staircase leading to the second floor. Some thing on the staircase caught Napoleon's eye; he walked over to peer through the balustrade. When Illya joined him a moment later, he was curiously inspecting a long length of log chain lying on the stairs. He picked up a section and held it up for Illya's inspection.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a chain," he observed.

"Remarkable deduction," Illya returned. "Rather strange placement, wouldn't you say?"

"Conspicuous to say the least," Napoleon agreed, looking past Illya toward the front door, only a few feet from the bottom of the stairs. "I suppose it's possible that Whateley is addicted to orgies and human sacrifice in the dark of the moon."

They were still speculating when Whateley reappeared a minute later. He saw the chain and sighed.

"That girl! I've told her a thousand times not to leave her things lying around the house." Whateley turned to what looked like a stuffed vulture on the mantel above the fireplace. "Flay!" he bellowed into the bird's beak.

"Yes, Father?" came a feminine voice, apparently from an ornamental tapestry depicting the Salem witch trials.

"We have guests," Whateley said to the vulture, "and you've been littering the stairway again. Come up here to meet the guests and remove your chain."

"Yes, Father," the tapestry replied obediently.

Whateley turned to the agents. "Never could locate anybody around this place until I put in an intercom system. You'll have to excuse my daughter; she's a good girl, but occasionally a trifle untidy about her hobby."