Hole in One by Walter Stewart Page B

merely the plaything of an idle hour, and boast of one’s conquests; one doesn’t—
    â€œYou know, Carlton, that line of talk would go down a lot better if you didn’t have a copy of
Penthouse
leering out of your coat pocket when you delivered it.”
    Argh. A guilty hand flew to my side. Too late.
    There was a stricken silence, and then it seemed to me that, all in all, it mightn’t be a bad idea to change the subject.
    â€œKlovack,” I said, “there are some new developments in this golf-course story. Literally.”
    And I told her about the supposed sale of the golf course and my theory as to how the prospect of a development might have pushed some nutcase over the edge and led to the planting of the bomb that killed poor old Charlie.
    â€œPretty thin,” she said. “In fact, it’s about as thin as your explanation as to why you jumped me back there. But never mind, I can check it out this afternoon.”
    â€œThis afternoon? What’s happening this afternoon?”
    â€œOh, nothing much. I telephoned Winifred Martin this morning and asked her to make an appointment for me with the club’s golf pro. I plan to grill him, between strokes, about the staff and everything else at the golf course. Winifred fixed my first lesson for right after work this afternoon.”
    She turned on her heel and went into the darkroom, leaving me musing on that. I filed a preliminary story on the possibility that, any day now, they might be digging up the golf course with bulldozers instead of nine irons—“The
Lancer
has learned from usually reliable sources of a major real-estate development,” and so on and so forth. It wasn’t any more misinformed or full of guesswork than most of what appears in print. I dumped a copy marked for Tommy’s attention on Olga’s desk, and then went into the darkroom, where Hanna glowered through the infrared gloom.
    â€œWell, what do you want?”
    â€œGee, Hanna, you sound a whole lot like Art Martin.”
    She smiled. I smiled back, and begged a ride out to Bosky Dell with her, giving as my excuse the immobility of
Marchepas
. The real truth, though, was that I was dying to be on hand for the first encounter between this puffed-up personage and our golf pro, who rejoices in the name of Running Elk.

Chapter 8
    When we got out to the golf course, Hanna slung her bag of clubs over her shoulder and marched purposefully out to the little pitch-and-putt area back of the clubhouse, where, I told her, the pro hangs out. He was bending over, lining up a putt, when we came around the corner, so all Hanna got was a glimpse of bent back in a buckskin coat. She waited courteously until the ball plunked into the hole, and then advanced with one hand thrust out.
    â€œHello, there,” she called out. “I’ve come for a golf lesson. I’m Hanna Klovack.”
    Then she dropped her bag and opened her mouth as six-foot-two of hawk-nosed, black-eyed, Ojibwa Indian turned around, gave her the old up and down, and sort of oozed forward to greet her.
    â€œRunning Elk,” he said.
    â€œEr . . . urn . . . Hanna Klovack,” said Hanna.
    The swarthy rascal took Hanna’s proffered hand, gave her an incandescent smile, and murmured in a throaty baritone, “My golf course is your golf course.”
    Hanna blushed a rich vermilion.
    â€œHanna, meet Joe Herkimer, a.k.a. Running Elk.” Like most Canadian Indians, Joe Herkimer is really only about one-sixteenth native, and in his case, the rest is pure WASP. I told Hanna, “He has an M.A. in English literature. He affects the Indian getup because he thinks it makes women go weak in the knees.”
    â€œIt does,” said Hanna. “How come I haven’t seen you around here before this?” she asked.
    â€œI’ve been away.”
    â€œCommuning with the Great Spirits?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking,” replied Joe.
    â€œHe’s