by Hank Janson
It coulda been at one time. Parquet flooring that should I have been waxed and shining beneath the glare of a huge chandelier, a wide sweeping staircase that looped to the first floor. But now the parquet flooring was coated with dust, and in places damp had caused the blocks to erupt. The staircase banisters were so thick with grime I couldn’t bear to touch them.
‘It’s a fine house,’ he enthused. ‘A really fine house. Don’t you admire the workmanship, the solidity of the building?’
I grunted.
He was looking at me expectantly, his head on one side and his fat face wreathed in a smile. The smile became a fixed grin at my lack of enthusiasm. ‘I’m glad you agree,’ he said.
I paced slowly into the lounge. Each step I took echoed up the stairs and around the walls. It was like being in church.
Let me show you the upstairs section,’ he said eagerly. ‘All modern conveniences, no expense spared for the comfort of guests.’
He went on ahead of me, talking all the time, looking over his shoulder to make sure I was listening. They were nearly all bedrooms on the first floor, all self-contained, with bathrooms and toilets attached. Everywhere was thick dust and an uneasy air of desolation.
‘Of course, you’re not seeing it at its best,’ he pointed out, as we descended. ‘But I haven’t the slightest doubt it could be made really habitable and comfortable.’
I grunted.
He’d talked himself out by this time. He was breathing heavily and his slender hopes were steadily dwindling. He didn’t find my attitude encouraging. He lost his brightness, asked with a despairing voice: ‘Is there anything else you’d like to see?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
He brightened up again. ‘Everything is open to inspection by our customers.’ He used a phrase he had used a hundred times before: ‘Our motto is ‘Not satisfied—No deal’’
‘What are the cellars like?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sirree,’ he said confidently. ‘Anything you wanna see, you can ...’ He broke off, gave me a sharp glance. ‘What was that you said, friend?’
‘The cellars,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see the cellars.’
He flushed like he was trying to swallow his tongue and was having difficulty.
‘You mean … the cellars!’
I grunted.
He tried to smother his consternation, kinda squared his shoulders. ‘We’re always out to please. What I say is, the satisfied customer is a customer forever. If you’ll just follow me this way, friend.’ He led the way across the hall to a door beneath the stairs. He paused when he lied the door, turned around as though remembering something. ‘I guess I clean forgot, friend,’ he apologised. ‘The electric light’s off. You just can’t see a thing down there. Maybe it ain’t all that important, eh?’
I put my hand in my pocket, pulled out a small flashlight. I showed it to him, switched it on to prove it was working. ‘This’ll help.’
He stared at the flashlamp, gulped a coupla times. ‘Yeah,’ he croaked. ‘I guess that’ll help.’
He went through the door and down the stairs like he trying to come up at the same time. I pushed past him rudely. ‘You don’t have to come,’ I said. ‘I’ll look around by myself.’
Now he acted differently, couldn’t stick close enough to my coat tails. ‘Of course, the place hasn’t been inhabited for some time,’ he pointed out dolefully. ‘There’s liable to be minor repairs needed. But you expect that, don’t you, friend?’ His voice was hopeless now, like he’d abandoned all thoughts of letting the joint.
There were two cellars down there, both of them damp and musty. The walls were of brick, coated with green slime from seeping moisture. Evil smelling liquid puddled the concrete floors.
I flashed the torch around, noting the size of the cellar and its dampness. It had the coldness of death, the chilliness of a mortuary refrigerator.
My flashlight showed me other things, too: the rusted water pipes, which were leaking monotonously, the sewage pipes running through one corner of the cellar, cracked and smelling poisonously. Any house with a basement like this had to be riddled with damp-rot and disease.
I grunted, made my way up the stairs. He followed right behind, muttering about the low cost of new plumbing and the ease with which the work could be undertaken.
I went straight across the hall, straight out through the door and into his car. I was lighting myself a cigarette by the time he’d locked the door of the house, descended the steps and climbed in beside me.
He made one more try. He worked up that uneasy grin, tried to look like he was Father Christmas, and said: ‘It’s a snip for the right man, friend.’
I grunted.
He sighed, started the engine, went through the routine of reversing his car. He wasn’t a good driver, and it got him sweating. He still went on trying. ‘Nice situation, too,’ he said. ‘Nicely secluded. Not more than twenty minutes from town.’
It was not more than twenty minutes if you used a high powered racing car. Then there wouldn’t have to be other traffic.
I grunted.
He was heading down the drive now towards the gates. ‘Shopping facilities are quite good, too, friend,’ he said. ‘There’s the local stores just ten minutes away. Get anything you want there, friend. Anything at all!’
It’d take nearly half-an-hour to reach what he called the local stores. It was a two-bit general merchant. The kinda place where they’re just outta stock of the stuff you need right now, but they will be breaking their necks sell you goods you don’t want.
I grunted once more.
We reached the main drag. He hesitated for a moment, like he was gonna get out and close those wrought iron gates. Then he kinda shrugged his shoulders, turned out on to the main drag. I could almost read what was in his mind ‘What’s it matter anyway. This fella sitting beside me is the only guy ever likely to think of going in there.’
I sat at in moody silence as he pressed his foot down on the throttle, trying to prove his assertion it was only twenty minutes to town. My grim silence got him on edge. His fat face dropped more and more, his eager hopefulness dwindled. Without me saying a word, he concluded it was no deal.
‘Where can I drop you, friend?’
‘Take me back to your office,’ I told him.
He gave me a sharp look, eyes brightened again. ‘Maybe we’ve got another property that’ll interest you.’
‘Maybe,’ I breathed. I waited a long while, let the silence between us grow to enormous proportions. Then I said, casually: ‘How much you asking for that dump, anyway?’
He had a bite and he knew it. A dozen times a day he was talking guys into buying property. He knew every trick of the trade and was a psychologist, too. He
Moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, started talking with careful deliberation, choosing his words. ‘It’s this way, friend. That’s a firmly constructed, well-made building. Maybe appearances in the first place count against it, but ...’
I interrupted him brutally. ‘How much do you want for that dump?’
He stared at me haughtily. ‘I was just about to explain …’
‘I don’t want explanations. I’ve seen what I’ve seen. I’m asking now. How much do you want for it?’’
I was a strange type of fish to him. I was biting. But he didn’t wanna scare me away from the bait. He thought a long while and finally mentioned a modest rental, payable a year in advance.
I gave a harsh, contemptuous grunt, looked out from my side of the car like I’d completely lost interest in the deal. About three minutes later, he asked cautiously: ‘Well, what’s your idea of a fair price, friend?’
‘Look,’ I said grimly. ‘You wanna fair price. Right, you give me a coupla hundred bucks and I’ll agree to live in it for a year.’
He worked up a chuckle. ‘You will have your little joke!’
‘That’s the only way you’ll get anybody to live in that joint,’ I told him. ‘You’ll have to pay them.�
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‘What d’you think’s a fair price, friend,’ he insisted. I considered it a long while. Finally I said, with studied firmness: ‘I’ll pay exactly half what you ask, take it on for a year. That’s my last word.’
He half closed his eyes, shook his head and smiled. ‘Really, friend,’ he remonstrated. ‘You know I couldn’t ...’
We were reaching the outskirts of town. ‘Just draw in there by the bus-stop,’ I told him. ‘I’ll leave you here.’
‘No doubt if we discussed the matter ...’ he began.
‘Pull up,’ I commanded tersely. ‘You’re overshooting.’
He swerved into the kerb, put on his brakes. Almost before the car had stopped, I was opening the door, climbing out.
‘Just a minute,’ he pleaded. ‘We can talk about this and fix something …’
‘I’m busy,’ I told him bluntly. ‘I’m not buying myself an argument.’
I was out of the car, walking back towards the bus-stop before he realised it. I stood there, waiting for a bus. Not once did I turn my head and look at him. I figured he’d climb down. All he’d get for that house was a low rental or nothing. He’d prefer the low rental!
Yeah, I was right. He reversed the car, backed right up alongside me. I bent down, poked my head through the window. ‘Well?’ I demanded bluntly.
‘Okay,’ he said morosely. ‘You win. You get it at your figure.’
I opened the door, climbed in beside him. ‘Let’s drive down your office and fix it up,’ I said. I looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I still don’t know who’s being the bigger sucker, you or me.’
CHAPTER TWO
Nobody in their right mind would have rented a dump like that to live in. The agent probably figured I was tough as to price but a sap to think of taking on the place at all.
The truth of the matter was the house was exactly what I’d been looking for during the past few weeks. It fitted in with my plans right down to the ground. Right down to the cellar!
I shipped in an army of cleaners from the south side of town, got the place cleaned out, scrubbed, disinfected and rendered relatively habitable. I opened accounts with various stores, bought a little furniture and other things I needed.
I moved in at the end of the week. I had one of the first floor bedrooms furnished and draped. It was a big room with bathroom attached. I furnished it with a large carpet, a comfortable bed and easy chairs. One end of the room I turned into my kitchen, installed a small electric stove and a cupboard to contain the crockery and cooking pans I needed.
Yeah, I know. I’d acted crazy in the first place by taking on that house. Now I was acting even more crazy by furnishing just one room and camping out in it.
But I had my reasons!
Everything was just the way I wanted. I was living in a desolate spot, miles from anywhere. I strenuously resisted the agent’s suggestion that he should arrange for a woman to come in and look after me. I wanted nobody around. I was content to do my own shopping, my own cooking, and carry out the task I had set myself, single-handed.
The end of the second week I had my first caller. I was in the cellar at the time. The sound of his knocks re-echoed through the empty house. I swore softly to myself, mounted the stairs to the big hall and opened up.
He was a short, fat guy with an expansive grin. He kept looking over his shoulder apprehensively, and when I opened the door, stared past me as though expecting a raging lion to spring on him.
‘Er ...er … Mr Shelton?’
‘Yeah.’
He swallowed nervously, loosed his starched collar with his fore-finger, and stared past me with apprehensive eyes.
‘Something on your mind?’ I demanded.
He worked up an uneasy grin. ‘That’s right,’ he said nervously. ‘The dog. Place I called at coupla weeks ago, I got bitten. Had to have it cauterised.’ He peered at me anxiously. ‘That means burnt,’ he explained. ‘It’s very painful.’
‘Quit worrying,’ I told him. ‘No dogs here.’
His mouth widened.
‘No dogs!’
I frowned at him. ‘Say, who are you, anyway?’
‘You’ve never met me, Mr Shelton. I thought I’d call and see you.’ He swallowed nervously, peered over my shoulder again. ‘You’re sure about the dogs, aren’t you?’
‘No dogs,’ I said irritably. ‘What d’you want?’
He fumbled in his pocket, produced a slip of paper, which he unfolded carefully. ‘I’m the ironmonger,’ he explained. ‘Hawkins, the ironmonger. I was passing this way and thought I’d drop in about this small account of yours.’
I widened the door. ‘Better come in a minute. I’ll write you a cheque.’
He stood in the extensive, bare entrance hall, looking around with surprise in his eyes. The house was empty and bleak, the way it had been when I first took it, except it was cleaned up.
I took the invoice from his hand, glanced at it. ‘Hang on a moment,’ I told him. ‘I’ll get you a cheque.’
I had to go upstairs for my cheque-book. When I got downstairs again, he was looking around as though mystified. Part of his interest was in the bricks and cement bags over by the cellar-door.
‘Making alterations to the cellar?’ he asked. What he really meant was. ‘What the hell you gonna use those bricks for?’
I glanced at them casually. ‘Chimney alterations,’ I told him. ‘Builders coming in sometime next week.’
He nodded his head understandingly. ‘I guess there’s lots of alterations you’ll need around here.’ The wind blowing along an empty corridor upstairs caused a door to slam loudly. His head jerked, he stared towards the stairway apprehensively.
‘Just the wind,’ I said.
He licked his lips. ‘About them dogs,’ he said. ‘Are you gonna have many?’
He puzzled me. ‘What dogs?’
‘Have to watch out for them,’ he warned. ‘Doctor was telling me how dangerous hydrophobia is. Have to have it cauterised.’
‘What dogs?’ I repeated.
His eyes gleamed with sudden interest. ‘Say,’ he said. ‘You ain’t figuring on having something really fierce, a lion or a tiger or something?’
I stared at him doubtfully. He didn’t look crazy, but he certainly talked that way. ‘I’ve gotta think about it,’ I said cautiously.
He grinned, winked one eye. ‘Something special, eh, Mr Shelton? I knew it. Immediately I saw your order for those chains, I knew it was gonna be fierce dogs or something special. Maybe you’re an animal trainer or something, Mr Shelton?’
I got it then. I hadn’t been taking any chances. I’d bought all I’d needed and more. All those chains and padlocks musta got him puzzled. At first he’d pictured a vicious dog straining on those chains. Now he was getting even more exaggerated ideas.
‘I’m a strange kinda guy,’ I told him. ‘I don’t like folks bothering me much. You were right first time. I’m having half-a-dozen huskies sent from Canada. You know what they’re like, vicious brutes. Ideal for keeping away inquisitive folks. You need a lotta chains with them kinda animals.’
He smiled with satisfaction. ‘I knew it was dogs,’ he said triumphantly. That scared look came back into his face suddenly. ‘You ain’t got any here now, have you?’
I grinned reassuringly. ‘Not due till next week. You don’t have to worry.’
That’s fine,’ he said. ‘That’s real fine.’ He looked at me anxiously. ‘Just one thing, Mr Shelton,’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to be any worry to you at all. So any time you order anything, maybe you could send the cheque by post, eh?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll send it by post.’
When he’d gone, I went back to the cellar. It sure was hard work. I’d rigged up an electric lamp to work by. I’d hacked holes in thick brickwork, was busy now cementing in iron staples to which were fastened long lengths of stout chain. The final job would be bricking in the doorway.
But I wasn’t ready for that yet!
I conte
nted myself with laying the three lower rows of bricks, omitting a coupla bricks on the very lowest row, leaving a gap just big enough to allow passage of a food pan.
Yeah, it was hard work. But I was enjoying it. Because every moment of that sweating, gruelling labour was in a sense a reward. It was giving me something I wanted deep down inside me. It was the arranging of the stage props for the final act. It was – the payoff!
I was in no hurry. I’d waited so long, I could easily wait much longer. I spent another fortnight completing the work, making sure everything was exactly the way I wanted it. Only when I was quite satisfied my setting was perfect did I begin the next stage of my plan.
Even after paying the rent of that house for a year in advance, and the cost of the extras, I still had dough in the bank. I bought myself a new suit, silk shirts and an expensive watch. I bought a new leather wallet, stuffed it with dollar bills. When I inspected myself carefully in the mirror, my reflection showed a tall, slim, fashionably and expensively dressed guy with neatly combed black hair and – I guess I am entitled to say it, since other folk have – expressive brown eyes.
I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock. Just the time folks were thinking about dinner.
I put on my fedora, placed a new, light overcoat on my arm and went out to the garage. I used a smart little blue coupe. But it wasn’t smart enough for playing my part. I decided to walk until I could pick up a bus into town. It had its advantages. If I ran my head into trouble this evening, the cops wouldn’t be .able to trace me by my car licence number.
Yeah, that was the funny thing about it. For years I’d been planning to do just this thing. And tonight, for the first time, I’d thought of what the cops could do about it.
After years of planning, the cops weren’t gonna stop me now. I walked down the drive, turned out on to the main drag and set off for town. It was a nice evening, just right for a stroll.
It had to be just right. Because right now the curtain was going up and the play was beginning.
