Part 1 (1/2)

TOWN OF HATE.

Maxwell Grant.

I.

Two houses stood on the hill.

Strange houses, those, because of their contrast. Individually, each had qualities that captured the admiration. Compared as a pair, they clashed.

The same was true of the owners.

Claude Bigby owned the old mansion and it reflected his conservatism. For a century the Bigby family had lived on the slope above the town of Lamira in the great stone residence which looked lost among its own gables. The original Bigbys had hewn the oak trees to form the clearing where the next generation had reared a mansion to replace the paternal log cabin. By then, the paper mill in the Kawagha Valley had become a source of large and steady income.

By the time the mill had thrived and died, the Bigbys had become huge land-owners. They developed acres of farms, orchards, quarries and other operations, until these had been parceled off to smaller investors. From then on, the family had conserved its wealth, which now belonged to Claude Bigby. Hehad inherited tradition along with visible a.s.sets.

The Bigby tradition was founded on one invariable rule: What you can't use, sell to someone who can.

The system had worked perfectly until Claude Bigby--present inc.u.mbent of the gabled mansion, sound of mind and body, in his forty-first year of wisdom--had sold the old family sheep pasture.

Of course it was more than an ordinary sheep pasture, and therefore it brought more than an ordinary price. This was the very reason Claude Bigby should have suspected what might happen to it. The pasture occupied the same slope as The Gables. It followed the side of the wooded hill that curved around to the left. The dividing line between the mansion grounds and the old pasture was Stony Run, the stream that cascaded down the hill to join the Kawagha River.

Perhaps the trouble was that Claude Bigby hadn't sold his sheep until he sold his pasture.

Sheep love to nibble a pasture clean, giving it the effect of a beautiful, well-kept lawn. That was what attracted Preston Brett. He was a man of Claude's age and wealth, but none of the tradition. Mr. Bigby should have guessed that Mr. Brett had no intention of raising sheep.

What Preston Brett raised was a residence of the most ultra-modern style. His new home was one of those prefabricated propositions, constructed out of everything from indestructible gla.s.s to unrecognizable plastics. It was all brought in sections like the parts of Solomon's Temple. The completed whole included impossible balconies and a flat-topped roof with garage accommodations for the post-war helicopter that Brett had ordered.

So now the broad slope had two mansions: Brett's dream-dwelling with its soap-bubble hues and strange name of ”Future Haven”, opposed to Bigby's ivy-walled establishment which was called ”The Gables”.

Which house was the monstrosity depended on the viewpoint. One thing was certain: whoever lived in one of those houses would normally view the other in contempt, house and all. Each being a normal man in his own right, Bigby and Brett behaved accordingly.

Those houses, however, were but the personalized symbols of the feud that had grown between the old and new.

The man who knew it all was Herbert Creswold. He was telling the full tale as he sat by the window of the fifth floor room of the Kawagha Hotel. His interested listener was a visitor named Ralph Lenstrom.

He was a shrewd man, Creswold, with sharp eye and grizzled hair that denoted experience to back his keen gaze. He had lived in Lamira long enough to learn its possibilities as well as its quirks.

”Look at this town.” Creswold gave a gesture from the window. ”Tell me what you see in it, Lenstrom.”

Adjusting his gla.s.ses, Lenstrom raised his heavy eyebrows to offset the bags that lay beneath. His piggish face gave the impression that he would have liked to wallow in the gra.s.sy soil that flanked the sides of Lamira's main street. What Lenstrom was seeing, however, were buildings which were mostly of wood, except the Star Theater and the Lamira State Bank. Those two structures were brick.

”Rather antiquated,” observed Lenstrom. ”Or should I say obsolete?”

”Either term will do,” conceded Creswold. ”The point is they're doing business. Agreed?”

Lenstrom couldn't help but agree. It wasn't yet evening, but lines were forming in front of the Star Theater. That promised a capacity crowd for the supper show, at which the average theater would find the attendance poor. People were also going in and out of the bank, which stayed open until nine everyevening. As for the stores that lined the street, they were receiving their full quota of customers. Judging from the packages that people were bringing out, business was heavy.

”Yes, Lamira is a product of the past,” observed Creswold, from Lenstrom's shoulder, ”but that makes its future all the brighter. Picture that main street with fine stores, more and larger theaters, a huge hotel to replace this one--”

”It will get them,” interrupted Lenstrom, ”if Preston Brett has his way.”

Creswold's answer was a chuckle. Lenstrom pointed out a sizeable modern mill. It was located where the main street crossed the narrow Kawagha over an old, clumsy bridge. The mill bore Brett's name and a horde of workers were coming from it. But that wasn't why Creswold laughed.

”You still think Brett is going to expand his industries, don't you?” queried Creswold. ”That, just because he is making the mill pay, he will soon own the timber and the quarries hereabouts? I'm telling you, Lenstrom, that Brett has gone the limit--and more.”

”How more?”

”Look over among those hills,” suggested Creswold. ”See those farms and orchards. The people who own them don't want industry to rule this town. They'll make sure it doesn't.”

”If enough of them remain, they may,” admitted Lenstrom, ”but they seem to be thinning out already.

Look at the ruins of those farmhouses that have burned in the last month.”

There was a nod from Creswold as Lenstrom pointed out blackened patches among the farms. Then: ”Don't worry about those,” remarked Creswold, cheerfully. ”Claude Bigby will see that those farmers rebuild. They are his friends, you know. Maybe Brett thinks he owns the town, but Bigby claims the county and it includes the town.”

As if by common consent, Creswold and Lenstrom looked off to the hill straight beyond the town. There, the two houses representing the old and new occupied the same slope, with Stony Run carving the quarter-mile stretch that divided the two properties.

From this distant observation post, the two buildings appeared quite close together, which made the comparison the more odious for both. It was plain, however, that Bigby and Brett kept themselves completely apart. There was no sign of a pathway between the houses. A journey by road would necessarily be roundabout, for the driveway up to Bigby's began soon after the highway crossed the river; whereas to reach Brett's, a car would have to follow the road around the base of the hill.

Creswold and Lenstrom were thinking in terms of men, not houses and the outlook was itself an expression of their thoughts. Looming over the hill, as though to engulf the buildings and their occupants, was a huge thunder cloud. It represented one of the frequent storms that struck the region. A sharp crackle of lightning etched the hillside scene; shortly there came a salvo of distant thunder.

”Sounds like Bigby arguing with Brett,” laughed Creswold, ”I'll bet those two could out-shout the biggest thunderstorm that ever struck Lamira.”

”I've heard about those storms,” said Lenstrom, nervously. ”How big are they?”

”Plenty,” a.s.sured Creswold. ”We'd better stay indoors until this one pa.s.ses. It will follow up the Kawagha past the Old Bridge Tavern. That's where they all go and it's where they hit the hardest. But let's get back to business.” ”You mean Brett's business?”

”Or Bigby's.” Creswold gave a canny smile. ”They're both licked: Brett because he wants to rush everything and make it grow too fast; Bigby because he won't uproot himself and turn reasonably modern.”

The sky was darkening rapidly and Lenstrom's face clouded with it. A flash of lightning revealed a troubled expression on the man's countenance. Creswold was prompt to understand it.

”I wouldn't invest in Brett's expansion schemes,” advised Creswold. ”He's already having trouble from the workers because he's been hiring outsiders. You've heard that, haven't you?”

Lenstrom gave a slow nod.

”It would be equally foolish to back Bigby if he wanted cash,” added Creswold, glibly. ”Those two are going to cancel each other out like a couple of Kilkenny cats.”

”And then?”

”Then there will be some sense in Lamira. The farmers and the town-folk will get together and really run things right. The profit will be in local real estate and the enterprises that go with it. Now is the time to buy into the real investments, while everybody is watching Bigby and Brett--”

There was a double interruption from the storm and Lenstrom's telephone. The coincidence of a lightning flash and the jangle of the bell made the fat man hesitate. Smiling, Creswold picked up the telephone.

”I'll answer it,” he said. ”I've never had lightning shock me over the phone wires. Besides, the call is probably for me. I left word that I'd be here and I have a lot of friends in this county. In fact”-- Creswold was lifting the receiver-- ”they call me everybody's friend.”

The call was for Creswold and he had trouble making himself heard above the rumble of the thunder.

Away from the window, where rain was pelting furiously, Lenstrom caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of the conversation.