The Servant Problem | Page 2

be seen. Philip began to suspect that he had
entered a ghost town, and when his headlights darted across a dark
intersection and picked up the overgrown grass and unkempt shrubbery
of the village park, he was convinced that he had. Then he saw the girl
walking the dog.
He kitty-cornered the intersection and pulled up alongside her. She was
a blonde, tall and chic in a gray fall suit. Her face was
attractive--beautiful even, in a cold and classic way--but she would
never see twenty-five again. But then, Philip would never again see
thirty. When she paused, her dog paused too, although she did not have
it on a leash. It was on the small side, tawny in hue, with golden-brown
eyes, a slender white-tipped tail, and shaggy ears that hung down on
either side of its face in a manner reminiscent of a cocker spaniel's. It
wasn't a cocker spaniel, though. The ears were much too long, for one
thing, and the tail was much too delicate, for another. It was a breed--or
combination of breeds--that Philip had never seen before.
He leaned across the seat and rolled down the right-hand window.
"Could you direct me to number 23 Locust Street?" he asked. "It's the
residence of Judith Darrow, the village attorney. Maybe you know her."
The girl gave a start. "Are you the real-estate man I sent for?"
Philip gave a start, too. Recovering himself, he said, "Then you're
Judith Darrow. I'm ... I'm afraid I'm a little late."
The girl's eyes flashed. The radiant backwash of the headlights revealed
them to be both green and gray. "I specified in my letter that you were
supposed to be here at nine o'clock this morning!" she said. "Maybe
you'll tell me how you're going to appraise property in the dark!"
"I'm sorry," Philip said. "My car broke down on the way, and I had to

wait for it to be fixed. When I tried to call you, the operator told me
that your phone had been disconnected. If you'll direct me to the hotel,
I'll stay there overnight and appraise your property in the morning.
There is a hotel, isn't there?"
"There is--but it's closed. Zarathustra--down!" The dog had raised up
on its hind legs and placed its forepaws on the door in an unsuccessful
attempt to peer in the window. At the girl's command, it sank
obediently down on its haunches. "Except for Zarathustra and myself,"
she went on, "the village is empty. Everyone else has already moved
out, and we'd have moved out, too, if I hadn't been entrusted with
arranging for the sale of the business places and the houses. It makes
for a rather awkward situation."
She had leaned forward, and the light from the dash lay palely upon her
face, softening its austerity. "I don't get this at all," Philip said. "From
your letter I assumed you had two or three places you wanted me to sell,
but not a whole town. There must have been at least a thousand people
living here, and a thousand people just don't pack up and move out all
at once." When she volunteered no explanation, he added, "Where did
they move to?"
"To Pfleugersville. I know you've never heard of it, so save the
observation." Then, "Do you have any identification?" she asked.
He gave her his driver's license, his business card and the letter she had
written him. After glancing at them, she handed them back. She
appeared to be undecided about something. "Why don't you let me stay
at the hotel?" he suggested. "You must have the key if it's one of the
places I'm supposed to appraise."
She shook her head. "I have the key, but there's not a stick of furniture
in the place. We had a village auction last week and got rid of
everything that we didn't plan on taking with us." She sighed. "Well,
there's nothing for it, I guess. The nearest motel is thirty miles away, so
I'll have to put you up at my house. I have a few articles of furniture
left--wedding gifts, mostly, that I was too sentimental to part with." She
got into the car. "Come on, Zarathustra."

Zarathustra clambered in, leaped across her lap and sat down between
them. Philip pulled away from the curb. "That's an odd name for a
dog," he said.
"I know. I guess the reason I gave it to him is because he puts me in
mind of a little old man sometimes."
"But the original Zarathustra isn't noted for his longevity."
"Perhaps another association was at work then. Turn right at the next
corner."
A lonely light burned in one of number 23 Locust Street's three front
windows. Its source, however, was not an incandescent bulb, but the
mantle