I completed my observations and was puzzled as to why anyone would victimize a harmless couple like the Goodmans. Belatedly I asked the logical question: “Have you reported these incidents to the police?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Goodman, “but they say they don’t have the manpower to guard one house all night every night.” He must have talked to Les Trade and Greg Son, whom I had met on an earlier case.
I read somewhere that one pair of mice, population unchecked, could have a million descendants in one year. I wondered how many vandals, uncaught, would be produced in a year.
Amanda, as I expected, made good coffee.
“How are Uncle Henry and his wife?”
“Travelling.”
“Niagara Falls again?”
“No, Hawaii.”
“They must like sandy beaches and palm trees and grass-skirted young women dancing the hula.”
“No. Neither of them finished reading James Michener’s endless novel and they’re trying to get the incentive to do so.”
I felt a twinge of guilt because I hadn’t finished the book either, but then, I hadn’t even started it. However, I had seen the movie.
I wished that Amanda had another interesting case for me because I liked her coffee, and the Goodmans’ case had me stymied.
“They’re fine people, friendly, honest, and very active in local affairs. Recently they judged the community flower show.”
“Could they have antagonized a horticulturalist?”
“No. They were scrupulously fair. In the rose competition they gave three first prizes — and there were only three entries. He writes a lot of letters to the editor on current topics.; his latest were scathing attacks on official bilingualism and Québec’s language police.”
“Eh bien, chacun á son goût,” I said, exhausting half of my bilingualism, although I agreed with him.
“Perhaps we could discuss the case further over dinner sometime, ” Amanda suggested.
“I’d like that.” It would beat a TV dinner at home or baloney sandwiches with Hank in the closed building where he was the caretaker/watchman and in which he let me maintain an office.
Amanda had given me an idea, so back at the office I telephone the Goodmans. “Do you have any French speakers in the neighbourhood?”
“Not that I know of,” Mr. Goodman said. “Why?”
“I noticed in the graffiti a lack of apostrophes, ‘family’ spelled with two l’s like ‘famille’ and ‘move’ like ‘mouvoir’. These errors suggest someone who speaks French.”
Every theory seemed to lead to a dead end. The vandal disliked the Goodmans, probably lived near them, was left- or right-handed (or ambidextrous?), possibly spoke French, and/or wrote English badly. I pulled down a volume of Dashiell Hammett and began to read how a real detective worked.
I called Mr. Goodman again and asked him to send another anti-bilingual letter to the editor in his mos vituperative prose, hoping it would be published. Then I telephoned Amanda about our… date. I offered her dinner at the restaurant of her choice — not a wide one in Blandsville — in return for an hour’s work in a few days, maybe.
