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much.”
    “Sorry.” The great man had the grace to apologize. “Shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. But, damn it, it’s a shock. Nice woman. Capable woman. Liked her myself. Sieglinde liked her. Odin and Thor liked her!”
    “Even Loki liked her,” said Professor Stott in a voice of doom. “President, do you still believe my sow was kidnapped as a student prank?”
    “Stott, I don’t know what to think. If this was a joke that backfired, it’s the worst thing that ever struck this college. Just tell me one thing, what the hell would Miss Flackley be doing at the pigpens in her nightgown?”
    “I cannot tell you.”
    “Are you sure it was a nightgown?” Helen asked him.
    “Of course it was a nightgown. Thin thing with a long skirt. What else would it be?”
    “Was it brown with little orange flowers?” Helen persisted.
    “How the hell should I know? What difference does it make?”
    “A great deal, I should think,” said Shandy. “As my wife mentioned, Miss Flackley dined with us last evening. She had on the sort of long dress any woman might wear for such an occasion. If Helen says it was brown with little orange flowers on it, then it assuredly was. If she was still wearing that same dress when she was killed, we can infer that she went directly from here to the pigpens.”
    “In her party dress?” Helen scoffed. “She wouldn’t do that. Miss Flackley was a meticulous woman.”
    “The pigpens are scrupulously maintained,” said Stott rather huffily.
    “I know they are,” said Helen, “but I still can’t see any woman going there of her own free will late at night in such an unsuitable outfit. Unless she’d left her van up there, which seems absurd. You walked her to it, Professor Stott. Where was it?”
    “In the auditorium parking lot.”
    That’s just down around the corner,” Helen explained to Iduna. “Visitors seldom bring cars to the Crescent because parking is so awkward here. I wonder if the van’s still there.”
    “I should be inclined to think not,” said Stott. “As the hour was somewhat advanced, I waited until she had started her engine and turned on her lights before making my own departure. She was in the process of leaving the lot when I began to retrace my steps up the hill.”
    “Where does she live?” asked Shandy.
    “I have not the remotest idea.”
    “Why haven’t you?” roared Svenson.
    “There was never any need,” Stott explained with simple dignity. “We have always had a Flackley the Farrier. According to departmental tradition, Balaclava Buggins himself made an arrangement with the then Flackley the Farrier to come to the college once every two weeks and do whatever was necessary for the proper maintenance of the livestock. Flackley always came. One day the Flackley who had grown old in the service of his profession did not come. In his place was a young man, presumably his son, who did the necessary work and left without explanation. Eventually this young man became an old man and was replaced by another young man. One day this Flackley did not appear. In his stead was a woman of indeterminate years. She performed with the same capability as her predecessors. She, too, has never missed an appointment.
    I assume that some other Flackley will appear a week from Tuesday and perform the usual tasks with the usual efficiency. At that point, if you so desire, I will break with tradition and obtain an address.”
    “The hell you will,” bellowed the President. “Damn it, man, we’ve got a corpse in our corncrib. Somebody’s got to claim the body. She must have lived somewhere. She must have relatives. According to you, there’s an untapped pool of Flackley the Farriers sitting around somewhere waiting for the call to duty. How do we get in touch with them?”
    “I expect the police will know how to handle that,” Shandy soothed him. “Miss Flackley couldn’t have lived too far from the college if she never missed an appointment even in bad