* * * * *
As I approached the house at the end of the lane, I saw it was about
the worse construction job I had seen in my life. It looked as
architecturally secure as a four-year-old's drawing of his home. The
angles were measurably out of line. Around every nail head were two
nails bent out of shape and hammered down, and a couple of dozen welts
in the siding where the hammer had missed any nail. The paint job was
spotty and streaked. Half the panes in the windows were cracked. I
fought down the dust in my nose, afraid of the consequences of a sneeze
to the place.
My toe scuffed the top porch step and I nearly crashed face first into
the front door. I had been too busy looking at the house, I decided. I
knocked.
Moments later, the door opened.
The lean-faced man who greeted me had his cheeks crisscrossed with
razor nicks and his shirt on wrong side out. But his eyes were bright
and sparrow alert.
"Are you Mr. Marshal Thompson, the agent for Manhattan-Universal
Insurance?" I put to him.
"I'm _the_ marshal, name of Thompson. But you ain't the first to take
my title for my Christian name. You from the company?"
"Yes," I said. "Were you expecting me?"