Leland had to call the lawyer on the custody case and the personnel man at the Kelso Chain Works before he could get going on Colin MacIver. Last night, Mike had rung the absentee’s bell on the pretext of asking directions, and as soon as the door had opened he had known the cause of the problem: the wife’s drinking. The odors of alcohol and neglected children had hit Mike like the stink of a brewery. The man had answered the door and had given the directions graciously. In a case like this Leland could only tell what they had seen, heard, and smelled. The man could have been sick during the day, too; it wasn’t for them to say. The family was obviously in trouble and there were places for it to go for help. If all of that had to be shown to the man by outsiders, then that was a problem he had made for himself.

The snow flurries that had been forecast for yesterday afternoon had come during the night, leaving a veil too thin to measure, much less clear away, and it had been disappearing fast by eight-thirty, when the traffic across the river had been heaviest. Karen had said that she would be in her office most of the day. He would call her before he left for Port Smith.

Leland had to go up and down Crestview Road in Canby twice before he located the home of Mrs. William MacIver. It wasn’t what he had been looking for. Sitting in Mike’s black two-door sedan at the curb, Leland had to think that perhaps Mrs. MacIver’s sense of tradition wasn’t as deeply rooted as he had been led to believe.

The house was new. It was a single-level contemporary design of fieldstone and white shingling, squatting in the middle of a carefully tended quarter-acre of lawn. Leland did not know his landscaping, but he thought he could see at least ten different kinds of shrubs around the house and bordering the flagstone walk. At one end of the roof was a very complicated television antenna, and at the other, on top of the chimney, was a lightning arrester of the latest configuration. It had been heavily advertised in the area last spring.

It was possible that she had married again. Leland hadn’t even thought of that. The house showed a woman’s influence but a man’s work. Leland got out of the car and went up the walk.

There was only one name on the plate: MacIver. Leland tapped the brass door knocker lightly.

“Yes?”

A chain on the door; he could see a pale blue eye.

“My name is Joseph Leland. I knew your son during the war.” He passed his identification through the crack. She took it and the door closed slightly. It opened again and the chain banged taut.