We drove up to the main gate, where a sturdy-looking barrier blocked our path.

“Can I help you, sir?” asked a security guard who appeared from the glass-fronted gray booth on my left. He wore a dark blue uniform, complete with flat-topped cap and a belt around his waist with more gadgets hung from it than I thought was prudent. Surely, I thought, a belt with all that weight would pull his trousers down rather than hold them up.

“I was passing and wondered if Mr. Rolf Schumann was in,” I said.

“And your name, sir?” the guard asked. He himself wore a plastic name badge with BAKER embossed on it.

“Butcher,” I said, deciding against “candlestick maker.” “Max and Caroline Butcher.” I had no idea why I didn’t tell him my real name. If Mr. Schumann was in fact in, then he might just remember me from Newmarket racetrack and wonder why I had given a false name to his security guard. But it didn’t matter.

“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Butcher?” asked the guard politely.

“No, I’m afraid we don’t,” I replied equally politely.

“Then I’m sorry,” he said. “We don’t accept visitors without an appointment.”

“OK,” I said. “But is Mr. Schumann actually here?”

“I couldn’t say,” he said.

“Couldn’t or won’t?” I asked.

“Couldn’t.” He had lost the politeness from his voice.

“Why not?” I asked him.

“Please, sir,” he said, not amused and not wanting to play the game any longer, “turn your vehicle around and leave the premises.” He pronounced “vehicle” as if it were two words, “veerhickle,” with the emphasis on the “hickle.” “Otherwise, I shall have you forcibly removed.”

He didn’t appear to be joking. I resisted the temptation to say that I was still owed some money by his company for having cooked a lunch at which his boss had been blown up. Instead, I did as he asked, turned my veer-hickle around and pulled away. I could see him large in the rearview mirror. He was standing in the road with his hands on his hips, and he watched us all the way down the hill until we disappeared around the bend at the bottom.

“That didn’t seem to go too well,” said Caroline somewhat sarcastically. “What do you suggest we do now? Climb their fence?”

“Let’s go get that breakfast we’ve been promising ourselves.”

We parked the Buick on Main Street and sat in the window of Mary’s Café, drinking coffee and eating blueberry muffins.

Delafield was somewhat topsy-turvy. What was known as Delafield Town was all the new development near the interstate highway, including the shopping malls and the agricultural machinery factory, while the city of Delafield was a delightful old-world village set alongside Lake Nagawicka. Nagawicka, we were reliably informed by the café owner, meant “there is sand,” in the language of the local Native Americans, the Ojibwe Indians, although we couldn’t actually see any sand on the lakeshore.

“More coffee?” asked Mary, coming out from behind her counter and holding up a black thermos pot.

“Thank you,” said Caroline, pushing our mugs towards her.

“Have you heard of someone called Rolf Schumann?” I asked Mary as she poured the steaming liquid.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Everyone around here knows the Schumanns.”

“I understand he’s president of Delafield Industries,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “At least, he was. It’s such a shame.”

“What’s a shame?” asked Caroline.

“About his condition,” Mary said.

“What about his condition?” I asked.

Mary looked around, as if checking that no one else was listening. There was only the three of us in the café. “You know,” she said, shaking her head from side to side, “he’s not all there.”

“How do you mean?” I said. Mary was embarrassed. I was surprised, and I helped her out. “Is the problem to do with his injuries?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “That’s right. Due to his injuries.”

“Do you know if he’s still in the hospital?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “I believe so.” She looked around again and then continued in a hushed tone. “He’s in Shingo.”

“Shingo?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Shingo. You know, the mental hospital.” She said the last two words in little more than a whisper.

“Where exactly is Shingo?” I asked her, in the same manner.

“In Milwaukee, on Masterton Avenue.”

“Do the Schumanns live in Milwaukee?” I asked more normally.

“No, of course not,” she said. “They live here. Up on Lake Drive.”

We took our leave of Mary and her muffins, not because I had gained enough information-I hadn’t-but because I felt that she was just as likely to tell the Schumanns about us, and our questions, as she was willing to tell us about them. Discretion, I thought, was not one of her strong points.

The city of Delafield, the village, had numerous shops full of stuff that one has no good use for but just has to have anyway. We visited each in turn and marveled at the decorative glass and china, the novelty sculptures, the storage boxes of every size, shape and decoration, the homemade greeting cards and the rest. There was a lovely shop with racks of old-fashioned-looking signs, one with fancy notebooks and another with legend-embroidered cushions for every conceivable occasion, and more. There were toys for boys and toys for girls, and lots of toys for their parents too. Delafield was a stocking-stuffer’s paradise. Not that it was cheap. Caroline’s credit card took quite a battering, as she bought far too much to easily get into her suitcase for the flight home. Presents, she explained, for her family, although we both knew that she wanted it all for herself.

Everywhere we went, I managed to bring the Schumanns into the conversation. In the embroidered-cushion store, the lady appeared to be almost in tears over them.

“Such nice people,” she said. “Very generous. They have done so much for the local community. Mrs. Schumann is always coming in here. She’s bought no end of my cushions. It’s so sad.”

“About Mr. Schumann’s injuries?” I prompted.

“Yes,” she said. “And all those other people killed in England. They all lived around here, you know. We used to see them all the time.”

“Terrible,” I said, sympathizing.

“And we’re all dreadfully worried about the future,” she went on.

“About what, exactly?” I asked her.

“About the factory,” she said.

“What about it?” I prompted again.

“It’s not doing so well,” she said. “They laid off a third of the workers last November. Devastating, it was, just before the holidays and all. Something about the Chinese selling tractors for half the price that we could make them for here. There’s talk in the town of the whole plant closing. My husband works there, and my son. I don’t know what we’ll do in these parts if they close down.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “And then that disaster happens in England, and poor Mr. Schumann and the others…” She tailed off, unable to continue.

The 2,000 Guineas excursion had obviously been a last-ditch effort to try to find a new market for the ailing giant. The resulting carnage, with the loss of key personnel, might prove to be the final nail in the company’s coffin.

“Is there much unemployment around here?” I asked her.

“No, not at the moment,” she said. “But three thousand still work at the tractor factory. No small community can absorb that number laid off at once. Many of them will have to leave and go to Milwaukee to make beer or motorcycles.”

“Beer or motorcycles?” I asked. It seemed a strange combination.

“Miller beer and Harley-Davidsons,” she said. “Both are made in Milwaukee.”

“And how far away is that?” I said.

“About thirty miles.”

“Maybe they will be able to continue living here and commute,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “It won’t be so bad.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, clearly not believing it.

“I wonder what will happen to the Schumanns,” I said during a pause.