Rats in the Belfry
By JOHN YORK CABOT
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories January1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]
This little guy Stoddard was one of the toughest customers I'd ever donebusiness with. To look at him you'd think he was typical of the mildpleasant little sort of suburban home owner who caught the eight-oh-twosix days a week and watered the lawn on the seventh. Physically, hisappearance was completely that of the inconspicuous average citizen.Baldish, fortiesh, bespectacled, with the usual behind-the-desk baywindow that most office workers get at his age, he looked like nothingmore than the amiable citizen you see in comic cartoons on suburbanlife.
Yet, what I'm getting at is that this Stoddard's appearance wasdistinctly deceptive. He was the sort of customer that we in thecontracting business would label as a combination grouser and eccentric.
When he and his wife came to me with plans for the home they wantedbuilt in Mayfair's second subdivision, they were already full of ideason exactly what they wanted.
This Stoddard—his name was George B. Stoddard in full—hadpainstakingly outlined about two dozen sheets of drafting paper withsome of the craziest ideas you have ever seen.
"These specifications aren't quite down to the exact inchage, Mr.Kermit," Stoddard had admitted, "for I don't pretend to be a first classarchitectural draftsman. But my wife and I have had ideas on what sortof a house we want for years, and these plans are the result of ouryears of decision."
I'd looked at the "plans" a little sickly. The house they'd decided onwas a combination of every architectural nightmare known to man. It wasthe sort of thing a respectable contractor would envision if he everhappened to be dying of malaria fever.
I could feel them watching me as I went over their dream charts.Watching me for the first faint sign of disapproval or amusement ordisgust on my face. Watching to snatch the "plans" away from me and walkout of my office if I showed any of those symptoms.
"Ummmhumm," I muttered noncommittally.
"What do you think of them, Kermit?" Stoddard demanded.
I had a hunch that they'd been to contractors other than me. Contractorswho'd been tactless enough to offend them into taking their businesselsewhere.
"You have something distinctly different in mind here, Mr. Stoddard," Ianswered evasively.
George B. Stoddard beamed at his wife, then back to me.
"Exactly, sir," he said. "It is our dream castle."
I shuddered at the expression. If you'd mix ice cream with pickles andbeer and herring and lie down for a nap, it might result in a dreamcastle.
"It will be a difficult job, Mr. Stoddard," I said. "This is no ordinaryjob you've outlined here."
"I know that," said Stoddard proudly. "And I am prepared to pay for theextra special work it will probably require."
That was different. I perked up a little.
"I'll have to turn over these plans to my own draftsman," I told him,"before I can give you an estimate on the construction."
George B. Stoddard turned to his wife.
"I told you, Laura," he said, "that sooner or later we'd find acontractor with brains and imagination."
It took fully two months haggling over the plans with Stoddard and myown draftsmen before we were able to start