This time I did the cutting in.
"Then how do you know you have rats?" I demanded triumphantly.
"Because," Stoddard almost shouted, "as I was going to tell you, I can hear them, and my wife can hear them."
I hadn't thought of that. "Oh," I said. Then: "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I am very sure. Now, will you please come out here and see what this is all about?" he demanded.
"Okay," I said. "Okay." And then I hung up and looked around for my hat. My visit wasn't going to be any fun, I knew. But what the hell. I had to admit that if Stoddard and his wife were hearing noises that sounded like rats, they had a legitimate squawk. For I built the house, and no amount of crazy ideas in its design by Stoddard could explain the presence of vermin.
Both the Stoddards met me at the door when I arrived out in the Mayfair subdivision where I'd built their monstrosity. As they led me into the living room, I caught a pretty good idea of their new home furnishings. They hadn't changed ideas, even to the mixing of a wild mess of various nations and periods in the junk they'd placed all around the house.
They led me past an early American library table to a deep Moroccan style couch, and both pulled up chairs of French and Dutch design before me.
Feeling thus surrounded by a small little circle of indignation, I began turning my hat around in my hands, staring uncomfortably at my surroundings.