“That lazy bugger? He wouldn’t even carry the flashlight.”
“Then ask Mike. He’ll go if you give him a couple of dollars.” She looked out the window. “It’s starting to snow again. I wish you’d stay home.”
Without any formal goodbyes, Cobb left the apartment, bundled up in a heavy coat, boots and knitted cap, and after another cup of coffee Qwilleran rose and thanked his hostess for the excellent dinner.
“Do you think the Fluxion could do something about our Block Party?” she asked as she accompanied him to the door and gave him a snack for the cats. “It means a lot to C.C. He’s like a little boy about Christmas, and I hate to see his heart broken.”
“I’ll work on it tomorrow.”
“Isn’t he wonderful when he gets wound up about City Hall?” Her eyes were shining. “I’ll never forget the time I went with him to the City Council meeting. He was making things hot for them and the mayor told him to sit down and keep quiet. C.C. said, ‘Look buddy, don’t tell me to pipe down. I pay your salary!’ I was so proud of my husband that tears came to my eyes.”
Qwilleran went back across the hall, unlocked the door, and peeked in. The cats jumped down from their gilded thrones, knowing that the waxed paper package he carried contained pot roast. Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles, while Koko made loud demands.
The man leaned over to rub Koko’s head, and that was when he saw it—on the floor near the desk: a dollar bill! It was folded lengthwise. He knew it was not his own. He never folded his money that way.
“Where did this come from?” he asked the cats. “Has anybody been in here?”
It had to be someone with a key, and he knew it was neither of the Cobbs. He inspected the typed sheets on his desk and the half-finished page in his typewriter. Had someone been curious about what he was writing? It could hardly be anyone but the other tenant in the house. Perhaps Ben doubted that he was a writer—it had happened before—and sneaked in to see for himself, dropping the dollar bill when he pulled something out of his pocket—glasses, or a handkerchief, perhaps. The incident was not really important, but it irritated Qwilleran, and he went back to the Cobb apartment.
“Someone’s been snooping around my place,” he told Mrs. Cobb. “Would it be Ben? Does he have a key?”
“Goodness, no! Why would he have a key to your apartment?”
“Well, who else could get in?”
An expression of delight began to spread over the landlady’s round face.
“Don’t say it! I know!” said Qwilleran with a frown. “She walks through doors.”
TWELVE
Early Monday morning, Qwilleran opened his eyes suddenly, not knowing what had waked him. Pain in his knee reminded him where he was—in Junktown, city of sore limbs.
Then the sound that had waked him came again—a knock at the door—not an urgent rapping, not a cheery tattoo, but a slow pounding on the door panel, as ominous as it was strange. Wincing a little, he slid his legs out of bed, put on his robe and answered the summons.
Iris Cobb was standing there, her round face strained, her eyes swollen. She was wearing a heavy coat and a woolen scarf over her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a shaken voice. “I’ve got trouble. C.C. hasn’t come home.”
“What time is it?”
“Five o’clock. He’s never been later than two.”
Qwilleran blinked and shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, as he tried to recall the events of the previous evening. “Do you think the police might have picked him up again?”
“If they had, they’d let him phone me. They did last time.”
“What about the boy who was going with him?”
“I’ve just been around the corner to Mike’s house. His mother says he didn’t go with C.C. last night. He went to a movie.”
“Want me to call the police?”
“No! I don’t want them to know he’s been scrounging again. I have a feeling he might have fallen and hurt himself.”
“Want me to go and see if I can find him?”
“Would you? Oh, would you please? I’ll go with you.”
“It’ll take me a couple of minutes to get dressed.”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’d wake Ben, but he was out drinking half the night.”
“That’s all right.”
“Dress warm. Wear boots.” Her voice, normally musical, had flattened out to a gloomy monotone. “I’ll call a taxi. C.C. took the station wagon.”
“Do you have a flashlight?”
“A small one. C.C. took the big lantern.”
As Qwilleran, trying not to limp, took the woman’s arm and escorted her down the snow-covered steps to the taxi, he said, “This is going to look peculiar, going to a deserted house at this hour. I’ll tell the driver to drop us at the corner. It’ll still look odd, but . . .”
The cabdriver said, “Fifteenth and Zwinger? There’s nothing there! It’s a ghost town.”
“We’re being met there by another car,” Qwilleran said. “My brother—driving in from downriver. A family emergency.”
The driver gave an exaggerated shrug and drove them down Zwinger Street. Iris Cobb rode in silence, shivering visibly, and Qwilleran gripped her arm with a steadying hand.
Once she spoke. “I saw something so strange when I was coming home from church yesterday morning. Hundreds of pigeons circling over Junktown—flying round and round and round—a big black cloud. Their wings were like thunder.”
At the corner of Fifteenth, Qwilleran gave the driver the folded dollar he had found in his apartment and helped Mrs. Cobb out of the cab. It was a dark night. Other parts of the sky reflected a glow from city lighting, but the street lights in the demolition area were no longer operating.
They waited until the cab was out of sight. Then Qwilleran grasped the woman’s arm, and they picked their way across icy ruts where the sidewalk had been cracked by heavy trucks hauling away debris. Several houses had already been leveled, but toward the end of the block stood a large, square, solid house built of stone.
“That’s it. That’s the one,” she said. “It used to have a high iron fence. Some scrounger must have taken it.”
There was a carriage entrance at the side. The driveway ran under this porte-cochère, and there was evidence of tire tracks, partially filled with snow. How recent they were, it was impossible to tell.
“I suppose he’d park around back, out of sight,” Qwilleran said.
They moved cautiously up the driveway.
“Yes, there’s the wagon!” she cried. “He must be here . . . . Can you hear anything?”
They stood still. There was dead silence, except for the lonely whine of tires from the expressway across the open fields.
They went in the back door. “I can hardly walk up the steps,” Iris said. “My knees are like jelly. I have a terrible feeling—”
“Take it easy.” Qwilleran guided her with a firm hand. “There’s a loose board here.”
The back door showed signs of having been wrenched open violently. It led into a dust porch and then into a room that had been a large kitchen. Only the upper wall cabinets remained. Lying in the middle of the floor, waiting to be moved out, were a pink marble fireplace and a tarnished brass light fixture.
They paused again and listened. There was no sound. The rooms were dank and icy.
Flashing the light ahead, Qwilleran led the way through a butler’s pantry and then a dining room. Gaping holes indicated that the mantel and chandelier had come from this room. Beyond was the parlor, with a large fireplace still intact. A wide archway equipped with sliding doors opened into the front hall, and one of them stood ajar.
Qwilleran went through first, and the woman crowded behind him.
The hall was a shambles. He flashed his light over lengths of stair rail, sections of paneling leaning against the wall, pieces of carved molding, and there—at the foot of the stairs . . .
She screamed. “There he is!�
� She rushed forward. A large section of paneling lay on top of the sprawled body. “Oh, my God! Is he—Is he—?”
“Maybe he’s unconscious. You stay here,” Qwilleran said. “Let me have a look.”
The slab of black walnut that lay on top of the fallen man was enormously heavy. With difficulty Qwilleran eased it up and tilted it against the wall.
Mrs. Cobb was sobbing. “I’m afraid. Oh, I’m afraid.”
Then he beamed the light on the face—white under the gray stubble.
She tugged at Qwilleran’s coat. “Can you tell? Is he breathing?”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“Maybe he’s just frozen. Maybe he fell and knocked himself out, and he’s been lying here in the cold.” She took her husband’s icy hand. She leaned over and flooded warm breath over his nose and mouth.
Neither of them heard the footsteps coming through the house. Suddenly the hall was alight, and the glare of a powerful flashlight blinded them. Someone was standing in the doorway that led from the parlor.
“This is the police,” said an official voice behind the light. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs. Cobb burst into tears. “My husband is hurt. Quick! Get him to a hospital.”
“What are you doing here?”
“There’s no time! No time!” she cried hysterically. “Call an ambulance—call an ambulance before it’s too late!”
One of the officers stepped into the beam of light and bent over the body. He shook his head.
“No! No!” she cried wildly. “They can save him! They can do something, I know! Hurry . . . hurry!”
“Too late, lady.” Then he said to his partner, “Tell dispatch we’ve got a body.”
Mrs. Cobb uttered a long heartbroken wail.
“You’ll have to make a statement at headquarters,” the officer said.
Qwilleran showed his police card. “I’m with the Daily Fluxion.”
The officer nodded and relaxed his brusque manner. “Do you mind coming downtown? The detectives will want a statement. Just routine.”
The newsman put an arm around his landlady to support her. “How did you fellows happen to find us?” he asked.
“A cabbie reported two fares dropped at Zwinger and Fifteenth . . . . What happened to this man? Did he fall downstairs?”
“Looks like it. When he failed to come home, we—”
Iris Cobb wailed wretchedly. “He was carrying that panel. He must have slipped—missed his step . . . . I told him not to come. I told him!” She turned a contorted face to Qwilleran. “What will I do? . . . What will I do? . . . I loved that wonderful man!”
THIRTEEN
After Qwilleran had brought Iris Cobb home from Police Headquarters and had called Mary Duckworth to come and stand by, he went to the office. With a bleak expression on his face, accentuated by the downcurve of his moustache, he threw ten pages of triple-spaced copy on Arch Riker’s desk.
“What’s the matter?” Arch said.
“Rough morning! I’ve been up since five,” Qwilleran told him. “My landlord was killed. Fell down a flight of stairs.”
“You mean Cobb?”
“He was stripping one of the condemned houses, and when he didn’t come home, I went out with Mrs. Cobb to look for him. We found him dead at the foot of the stairs. Then the police took us in for questioning. Mrs. Cobb is a wreck.”
“Too bad. Sorry to hear that.”
“It was the Ellsworth house on Fifteenth Street.”
“I know the place,” Riker said. “A big stone mausoleum. Hector Ellsworth was mayor of this town forty years ago.”
“He was?” Qwilleran laughed without mirth. “Then Cobb lost his last battle with City Hall. They finally got him! I’m beginning to believe in the spirit world.”
“How are you going to write this up?”
“It’s a trifle awkward. Cobb was trespassing.”
“Scrounging? All the junkers do that. Even Rosie! She never goes out without a crowbar in the car.”
“Tell your wife she’s guilty of looting city property. Cobb was caught once. They arrested him and gave him a heavy fine—and a warning, which he disregarded.”
“Doesn’t sound like the kind of jolly Christmas story the boss wants.”
“There’s one thing we could do,” said Qwilleran. “Cobb was organizing a Christmas celebration for Junktown—a Block Party—and the city was giving him a hard time. Wouldn’t let him decorate the street, play Christmas music, or serve refreshments. All kinds of red tape. Why don’t we talk to City Hall and railroad this thing through for Wednesday afternoon? It’s the least we can do. It’s not much, but it might make the widow feel a little better.”
“I’ll ask the boss to get the mayor on the phone.”
“The way I see it, there are five city bureaus giving Junktown the run-around. If they could just get someone from the mayor’s office to cut through the whole mess . . .”
“All right. And why don’t you write a plug for the Block Party? We’ll run it in tomorrow’s paper. We’ll get every junker in town to turn out. And write something about Cobb—something with heart.”
Qwilleran nodded. The phrases were already forming in his mind. He’d write about the man who tried to make people hate him, but in the topsy-turvy world of the junker, everyone loved his perversity.
Qwilleran stopped in the Fluxion library to look up the clips on Hector Ellsworth and at the payroll cage to pick up his check, and then he returned to Junktown.
Mary Duckworth, handsomely trousered, met him at the door of the Cobb apartment. He was aware of a subtle elation in her manner.
“How’s Iris?” he asked.
“I gave her a sedative, and she’s sleeping. The funeral will be in Cleveland, and I’ve made a plane reservation for her.”
“Anything I can do? Perhaps I should pick up the station wagon. It’s still behind the Ellsworth house. Then I can drive her to the airport.”
“Would you? I’m packing a bag for her.”
“When she wakes,” Qwilleran said, “tell her that Junktown is going to have everything C.C. wanted for the Christmas party.”
“I know,” said Mary. “The mayor’s office has already called. His representative is coming here to speak to the dealers this afternoon, and then we’ll have a meeting upstairs tonight.”
“In Hernia Heaven? I’d like to attend.”
“The dealers would be delighted to have you.”
“Come across the hall,” Qwilleran said. “I have something to report.”
As he unlocked the door of his apartment, the cats—who had been curled together in a sleeping pillow of fur in the Morris chair—immediately raised their heads. Yum Yum scampered from the room, but Koko stood his ground, arching his back and bushing his tail as he glared at the stranger. His reaction was not hostile—only unflattering.
“Do I look like an ogre?” Mary wanted to know.
“Koko can sense Hepplewhite,” Qwilleran said. “He knows you’ve got a big dog. Cats are psychic.”
He threw his overcoat on the daybed and placed his hat on the desk, and when he did so, he saw a small dark object lying near his typewriter. He approached it gingerly. It looked like the decomposed remains of a small bird.
“What’s this?” he said. “What the devil is this?”
Mary examined the small brown fragment. “Why, it’s a piece of hair jewelry! A brooch!”
He combed his moustache with his fingertips. “Some uncanny things have been happening on these premises. Yesterday some benevolent spirit left me a dollar bill!” He examined the birdlike form woven of twisted brown strands. “You mean this is real hair?”
“Human hair. It’s memorial jewelry. They used to make necklaces, bracelets, all sorts of things from the hair of someone who had died.”
“Who would want to keep such stuff?”
“Iris has an extensive collection. She even wears it occasionally.”
Qwilleran dropped the brooch with
distaste. “Sit down,” he said, “and let me tell you what I discovered about the Ellsworth house in the Fluxion clip file.” He offered her a gilded chair, flipping the red cushion to the side that was not furred with cat hair. “Did you know that Ellsworth was a former mayor?”
“Yes, I’ve heard about him.”
“He died at the age of ninety-two, having achieved a reputation for eccentricity. He was a compulsive collector—never threw anything away. He had a twenty-year accumulation of old newspapers, string, and vinegar bottles. And he was supposed to be worth quite a sum of money, but a large chunk of his holdings was never found . . . . Does that suggest anything to you?”
Mary shook her head.
“Suppose someone was looking for buried treasure in the old house last night . . . and suppose C.C. arrived with his crowbar, looking for black walnut paneling . . . and suppose they thought he was after the strongbox?”
“Don’t you think that’s rather far-fetched?”
“Maybe he accidentally found the loot when he ripped open the paneling . . . and maybe another scrounger came along and pushed him downstairs. I admit it’s far-fetched, but it’s a possibility.”
The girl looked at Qwilleran with sudden curiosity. “Is it true what my father says about you? That you’ve solved two murder cases since joining the Fluxion?”
“Well, I was instrumental—that is, I didn’t do it alone. I had help.” He touched his moustache tentatively and threw a glance in Koko’s direction. Koko was watching, and he was all ears.
“Do you really think that Cobb might have been murdered?”
“Murder shouldn’t be ruled out too quickly—although the police accepted it as an accident. A man with Cobb’s personality must have had enemies.”
“His churlishness was a pose—for business reasons. Everyone knew that. Many junkers think prices go up if a dealer is friendly, and if his shop is clean.”
“Whether it was an act or not, I don’t suppose anyone hated him enough to kill him. Competition for the Ellsworth treasure would make a better motive.”
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Ate Danish Modern, Turned on and Off Page 11
