any wild stretch be telling the truth?”
“Probably not about the vegetarianism,” said Porter-Smith, “since I’ve noticed he eats whatever they give him at the center, but he must have worked with figures somewhere. I can’t understand why that man doesn’t pull himself together and get a decent job, instead of foraging in trash cans for a nickel here and a nickel there. Even if he is getting on in years, there’s plenty of part-time work for bookkeepers and tax consultants. Of course his appearance is against him.”
Eugene Porter-Smith shot the cuffs of his brand-new dinner jacket to show off the engraved golden cuff links in his starched white cuffs. Time was when he’d gone in for ruffled pink shirts and maroon velvet tuxedo jackets with satin lapels. Now that he was a coming man, he’d put such youthful follies behind him in favor of sober black of a conservative cut, though there was still a devilish je ne sais quoi about the way he tied his tie.
“His appearance?” said Sarah. “Are you talking about Ted Ashe?”
“Why yes, I believe that’s his name. Tallish, on the heavy side, rather young-looking for a senior citizen, it seems to me, though his face is so dirty it’s hard to tell. That’s another funny thing about him, because he’s always fairly clean-shaven. I suppose I shouldn’t be mentioning such things at the dinner table, but I’ve often wondered how he manages to shave himself every day without disturbing the dirt.”
“Indian or Oriental blood,” said Brooks promptly. “Other races tend to be less hirsute than the Caucasian. But then we have more to cover up.”
Porter-Smith shook his head. “He doesn’t look Indian or Oriental. Besides, I usually see him late in the day when he’s grown a little stubble. But the next time I see him, the whiskers are no longer and he’s just as filthy as he was before.”
“Electric razor, then.” Brooks wasn’t to be daunted by a faceful of stubble. “That’s the only kind you can use without lather, unless you don’t mind raking your skin off.”
“Good thinking, Brooks,” said Max, “only where does he plug it in? Back alleys don’t have outlets, so he can’t be sleeping rough even though he looks as if he is. If he goes to a shelter, they’d have facilities for him to shave, but they’d also make him clean himself up. Ergo—I knew I’d find a place to use that word someday—he’s got a pad of his own somewhere. Would Loveday have the address?”
“I suppose so,” said Porter-Smith. “I never touch the personnel files myself. That’s Loveday’s territory, and he doesn’t like me after what I said about his ledgers. How come you people know Ted Ashe, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We don’t,” said Sarah. “It’s just that his name keeps cropping up lately. For instance, Cousin Dolph was wondering whether Ashe would be a suitable person to help at the auction Saturday night. You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. Mrs. Dolph’s asked me to clerk. My fiancée’s all excited about it. Jennifer hopes to pick up some real conversation pieces for our new home.”
“She’ll find plenty of those,” Sarah assured him, thinking of the seaweed mottoes.
A couple of the other boarders were looking interested and another one decidedly put out, so Sarah thought she’d better issue a blanket invitation. “It was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration and it’s not open to the general public, but of course you and your friends would be welcome.”
Max’s lips were twitching a little, and Sarah could see why they might. She and Theonia had sent out well over four hundred invitations that afternoon. Aunt Emma must have rounded up her busload by now. Marcia Whet would be bringing a party, so would Aunt Appie and no doubt a few more. What if everybody they’d asked came and brought a friend? She’d better curb her hospitable impulses and start praying for a fine night and a full moon
“Probably not about the vegetarianism,” said Porter-Smith, “since I’ve noticed he eats whatever they give him at the center, but he must have worked with figures somewhere. I can’t understand why that man doesn’t pull himself together and get a decent job, instead of foraging in trash cans for a nickel here and a nickel there. Even if he is getting on in years, there’s plenty of part-time work for bookkeepers and tax consultants. Of course his appearance is against him.”
Eugene Porter-Smith shot the cuffs of his brand-new dinner jacket to show off the engraved golden cuff links in his starched white cuffs. Time was when he’d gone in for ruffled pink shirts and maroon velvet tuxedo jackets with satin lapels. Now that he was a coming man, he’d put such youthful follies behind him in favor of sober black of a conservative cut, though there was still a devilish je ne sais quoi about the way he tied his tie.
“His appearance?” said Sarah. “Are you talking about Ted Ashe?”
“Why yes, I believe that’s his name. Tallish, on the heavy side, rather young-looking for a senior citizen, it seems to me, though his face is so dirty it’s hard to tell. That’s another funny thing about him, because he’s always fairly clean-shaven. I suppose I shouldn’t be mentioning such things at the dinner table, but I’ve often wondered how he manages to shave himself every day without disturbing the dirt.”
“Indian or Oriental blood,” said Brooks promptly. “Other races tend to be less hirsute than the Caucasian. But then we have more to cover up.”
Porter-Smith shook his head. “He doesn’t look Indian or Oriental. Besides, I usually see him late in the day when he’s grown a little stubble. But the next time I see him, the whiskers are no longer and he’s just as filthy as he was before.”
“Electric razor, then.” Brooks wasn’t to be daunted by a faceful of stubble. “That’s the only kind you can use without lather, unless you don’t mind raking your skin off.”
“Good thinking, Brooks,” said Max, “only where does he plug it in? Back alleys don’t have outlets, so he can’t be sleeping rough even though he looks as if he is. If he goes to a shelter, they’d have facilities for him to shave, but they’d also make him clean himself up. Ergo—I knew I’d find a place to use that word someday—he’s got a pad of his own somewhere. Would Loveday have the address?”
“I suppose so,” said Porter-Smith. “I never touch the personnel files myself. That’s Loveday’s territory, and he doesn’t like me after what I said about his ledgers. How come you people know Ted Ashe, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“We don’t,” said Sarah. “It’s just that his name keeps cropping up lately. For instance, Cousin Dolph was wondering whether Ashe would be a suitable person to help at the auction Saturday night. You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything. Mrs. Dolph’s asked me to clerk. My fiancée’s all excited about it. Jennifer hopes to pick up some real conversation pieces for our new home.”
“She’ll find plenty of those,” Sarah assured him, thinking of the seaweed mottoes.
A couple of the other boarders were looking interested and another one decidedly put out, so Sarah thought she’d better issue a blanket invitation. “It was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration and it’s not open to the general public, but of course you and your friends would be welcome.”
Max’s lips were twitching a little, and Sarah could see why they might. She and Theonia had sent out well over four hundred invitations that afternoon. Aunt Emma must have rounded up her busload by now. Marcia Whet would be bringing a party, so would Aunt Appie and no doubt a few more. What if everybody they’d asked came and brought a friend? She’d better curb her hospitable impulses and start praying for a fine night and a full moon
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