Who's Sorry Now?

by Jill Churchill

  “How could that happen? Didn't he see it?"

  “He was dressed for a crash. Protective glasses, heavy headgear, and leather gloves. Apparently the glasses deceived him."

  “What do you mean?" Robert asked.

  “He was aiming for the window of an Italian restaurant where a bunch of Mafia guys were eating at a front table.”

  Robert roared with laughter. "Not good planning! Did he go to jail for it?"

  “No, but he had to pay for the damage to the car before it was returned to the real owner."

  “So you don't think he had anything to do with Edwin McBride's death?"

  “Fingerprints don't match the one on the window or the set on the trash can."

  “That's a pity. You could have solved at least two crimes against Mr. Kurtz."

  “But not Edwin McBride, which was really a nasty murder.”

  Walker changed the topic. There was no point in talking about Edwin's murderer until he had some idea who it was.

  “How's the mail thing coming along?" he asked Robert.

  “Just fine. All that remains is to have Peter Winchel draw up a few contracts. First, with the Harbinger boys, and second with Mrs. Gasset. Then everything will start."

  “How long will it take?"

  “Harry thinks they can complete most of the important things in two to three weeks or a little longer. A few things, like painting, might not be completed, but the mail won't be pawed through."

  “Robert, you've done a good thing. And you doggedly pursued it. Everybody except the nasty old women will be grateful to you. Maybe they should name the place the Robert Brewster Letter and Package Center."

  “Golly, Howard! That would really be great.”

  “I'll suggest it to Peter.”

  Walker had meant every word of what he'd said. Robert had noticed a problem, asked around about how to solve it, found out from various people how his project might work, and was finally going to get it done properly. He did deserve the credit.

  Whereas Howard himself was still at sea on two different crimes committed about the same time. He didn't even know if he was looking for a woman or a man. Although, he doubted that there was a woman responsible for choking Edwin McBride to death with a wire that almost nobody but a jeweler would own. The only jeweler Walker had ever heard of was Ralph Summer's new father-in-law. And there was certainly no reason for someone from Albany to come all this way for the purpose of killing someone he was unlikely to have known.

  On the other hand, Ralph's father-in-law might know something about other legitimate reasons for needing the same sort of tool. A wire with very fine, sharp teeth to cut through things. A woodworker, possibly. Or somebody who crafted glass works. He might contract Ralph and ask the father-in-law for other suggestions. He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the desk, and said to himself, no.

  He didn't want either Ralph or Ralph's in-laws to know how desperate he'd become. It was simply a matter of his pride, but so be it.

  Now that his reflections had thrown up some admittedly feeble suggestions, he was a little bit encouraged. Where and how would a normal person find a jeweler's fIne cutting wire? A hardware store? A jewelry store? Maybe some sort of machine used such a thing to cut through something like cheese or bread.

  Bread.

  Arnold Wood. Arnold Wood's nasty son.

  Arnold used his mouth as a weapon. And the only two times Howard had seen Serafina at Mr. Bradley's she'd worn short-sleeved dresses. She had smooth arms with no sign of bruises. But the son was truly violent. So far as Howard knew, his violence was only toward dogs. But could he have murdered a person?

  How in the world could he possibly prove this?

  And how would the kid have even known who Edwin was? Edwin was at the train station or in the Harbingers' shed all the time. According to what Howard had heard about Arnold's fat kid, he hardly left his sofa, where he listened to the radio. He didn't even drive his mother to deliver her rolls to the greengrocer. Even Arnold wouldn't drive her.

  Thinking about driving, he veered off. Deputy Parker needed his own transportation and Jack Summer wanted to sell his motorcycle so he could take Mrs. Towerton to dinner somewhere nice. He rang up Parker at his apartment over the greengrocer's shop.

  “Are you in the middle of anything right now?”

  Howard asked.

  “I'm just reading Mrs. Smithson's recipe book. You need me?"

  “No, but you need to know something I'd forgotten to tell you. Jack Summer is looking for a used car and wants to sell his motorcycle. It even has a sidecar. I've already told Jack that a vehicle is beyond my budget. But maybe there's some way to work it out."

  “How much does he want to be paid for it?"

  “I didn't even ask," Howard replied. "You might go over to the newspaper office and see what he says. I shouldn't tell you this, but he's a bit anxious to get a real automobile. He also wants to interview you for the next issue of the Voorburg Times. He always wants to introduce newcomers to his readers."

  “That's sort of embarrassing. As for the motorcycle, I'd love to buy it. I've got a little bit saved up. Maybe he'd let me make a down payment."

  “You and Jack need to work this out yourselves.”

  As soon as the contracts were signed on Tuesday with the Harbinger boys and Mrs. Gasset, progress on the mail sorting station moved quickly. Robert was surprised that all the town council required was a normal business property tax to be paid on the basis of income. And it was only 1.5 percent of gross receipts. That was a lot less than Robert had expected them to ask from Mrs. Gasset. There had been conversations earlier about paying back the cost with half the proceeds of the sale of the boxes and annual fees. Mrs. Gasset would make a good deal more money than was being payed outright. And so she should, Robert thought. Of course, he'd help get everything done as soon as the boxes were completed. Each box needed to be numbered at the back end. Robert, who had fairly good handwriting, would volunteer to do that. And maybe he'd help her out a bit for the first few heavy Monday morning sortings. He was beginning to realize what a swell young woman she was. It would be a pleasure to spend a little free time with her.

  Harry Harbinger had presented two different plans for the setup. The council let him decide which would be easier and most efficient. It was only a few hours after the council had made these decisions that Harry and Jim were at the train station taking detailed measurements. By the end of the day, the actual work had begun. Boxes were being created and glued together with additional nails to make sure they were sturdy.

  Robert was, naturally, getting in their way, offering fruitlessly--to be allowed to help. "I'll bet you don't even own your own hammer," Harry said.

  “No, but I could buy my own," Robert claimed.

  “Making this happen is enough," Harry said kindly. "We know what we're doing and don't need anybody's help.”

  Robert gave up. But he still sat in one of the chairs meant for people waiting for their trains to arrive. He wanted to at least observe.

  At lunchtime, the Harbinger boys unpacked their sandwiches and Robert went to fetch Chief Walker. "You must see this. The boys are eating their lunch and we can go to Mabel's afterward.”

  Howard could hardly refuse. "After all, the mail sorting station is named for you, at my urging."

  “Is it really going to be? I thought you were kidding. Wait until I tell Lily this. She'll be green with envy. Come on, Howard. I want you to see this before the Harbingers are through with their lunch.”

  Lily, somewhat to Robert's predictions, wasn't envious. Instead, she praised him for his concern and tenacity. But later in the evening, Robert thought of a few other things that needed to be done. He called Mrs. Gas- set and asked to meet her on one of her breaks to find out where he could locate duplicate numbered tickets for the lottery.

  When he met her at the bench across the street, she already had the information and had written out an address on a small piece of paper. "It's one of
my jobs to order new tickets for the box office when they start to run low. Here's the address in Poughkeepsie. If you could buy them before I give my boss my notice, I'd pay you back out of the proceeds of the lottery for the boxes."

  “No need to do that," Robert said.

  “You might not need the money, but I need to be fair." Later that evening, Robert asked Lily, "Do we pay a business tax from what we earn from our boarders?" "Of course we do. It's not much of a tax."

  “I know. I learned that today. I have to go to Poughkeepsie to buy the lottery tickets. Want to ride along tomorrow?"

  “That sounds nice. I've been cooped up inside too much with my reading lately. I've been alternating the mystery books you bought me for my birthday with the textbooks Dr. Toller lent me. I'll have to find a scarf though.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Friday, May 12, through Monday, May 15

  JACK SUMMER'S whole front page of the Voorburg Times was headed:

  BOOKS!

  Underneath this headline was a horrible picture he'd received via the press service he paid for. A night scene that showed a great blazing fire and armed men in brown SA uniforms either tossing books onto the file, or holding their guns trained on the crowds. Women were weeping, and children ran around as if it were a happy bonfire.

  The text inside the front page explained that on the tenth of May German students who were enthralled by Hitler had burned thousands of books, mostly by Jewish intellectuals. Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, H. G.

  Wells, Ernest Hemingway, Bertolt Brecht, even Helen Keller and Jack London. They especially went after Heinrich Heine, who had written more than a hundred years earlier, "When one burns books, one will soon burn people.”

  They also burned family Bibles, Talmuds, and anything not written in German. In the fIrst fire in Berlin, overseen by Joseph Goebbels, propaganda minister for Hitler, more than thirty thousand books went up in flames.

  Jack's editorial opinion was made clear in the next paragraph. "Should every good German have a copy of Mein Kampf on the bedside table and be required to memorize it?”

  Mr. Kurtz picked up the paper and wept. He hadn't cried since he'd been eleven years old until that morning.

  “The criminals! How dare they? Books are precious."

  “Grandpa, I'm so sorry you saw this," his granddaughter said.

  “Would you have hidden this horror from me? I hope you would not. Americans must know what they're up against. Hitler and his cronies are pure evil.”

  By Saturday, the thirteenth of May, the book-burning plague had also occurred in several large American cities.

  Even Jack Summer couldn't figure out what was being burned and why. He called some of his reporter friends in other cities and asked who was doing the book burning, why, and what kinds of books.

  The answers varied. Most of the other reporters had no idea, except to say, "They're young and stupid, and think it's all in good fun," almost all of them said in variations on the same theme.

  “Most of the students I've talked to don't have any idea what or who started it, and they just went along with the idea," another reporter Jack spoke to said sadly. "It broke my spirit to see young people burning books.”

  And little Voorburg had its own book burning on Sunday in front of Mr. Kurtz's shop. This time on the sidewalk in front of his main window. Fortunately, a brief, heavy, and unexpected rain put the fire out a few moments later—before Chief Walker even reached town.

  They were library books, all in German. Chief Walker handled them carefully, wearing gloves, and took them back to his office at the jail. On Monday he called several of the libraries they'd come from, asking if anyone remembered who had checked them out.

  He collected three different names for the borrowers. But the descriptions, depending on the age of the librarian, were that it was a man in his sixties—this from seemingly young women from the sound of their voices. The older librarians who recalled him guessed late forties to mid-fifties. All agreed that he was lean, somewhat shorter than average, and had thinning brownish hair. One of them said he had brownish-red hair.

  It was clear to Howard that the three names were all certain to be false. But the description, except for age, was likely to be the same person.

  Chief Walker explained to all of them that books had been set afire and then doused by a short rain. He also told them the books might have been checked out by a suspect for former crimes and the books couldn't be returned until they were fingerprinted. This would take at least a week.

  Walker thought that since Miss Exley hadn't been approached, but libraries both north and south of Voorburg, all close to Route 9, were chosen, this might be meaningful. Maybe because the man would be recognized as local? Or conversely, and more likely, that he didn't want to be seen in Voorburg by anyone.

  Looking back later in the day, Walker realized that the books must have been set on fire at a little before two in the morning. Howard had awakened at the increasingly rare sound of rain at the open window of his bedroom at two. His phone had rung soon after Howard had closed the window, with a furious squawk from Mr. Kurtz the night of the second fire at his shop.

  He called on Mrs. Smithson after he'd spoken to the libraries. "Mrs. Smithson, do you recall the man who came into your grandfather's shop the first day he was open for business?"

  “Vaguely," she said. "I was still exhausted from the long trip. Why do you ask?"

  “You said his first customer was Mrs. White wanting her girls' dresses let down, didn't you?"

  “Yes. I do remember that."

  “You also had a man come in?"

  “Did I say that?"

  “Robert said you did. What do you remember about him?"

  “Nothing. He just came in while I was bringing a sandwich out front for my grandfather. He was so anxious to get everything in place that he hadn't even made himself breakfast."

  “Do you recall what he looked like?"

  “I had no reason to remember," Mrs. Smithson said. "All I saw was that he came in the door, and when Grandpa asked what he needed done, the man just shrugged. He didn't speak. He just stood there for a few minutes watching the pinking shears and scissors being hung on the wall and flat bundles of fabric being put on the shelves. When I came back to take away Grandpa's plate and glass of beer, nobody was in the shop."

  “Was he tall or short? Fat or skinny? Bald or a redhead?"

  “Chief Walker, I haven't any idea. I just thought he was rude and went back in the little kitchen to eat my own sandwich and make some coffee for Robert."

  “I'm sorry to have bothered you with this. If you happen to think of anything else, let me know. I realize how awful these attacks on your grandfather are and am determined to find and lock up whoever is doing them.”

  Her reply was softer and stronger. "I know you do care almost as much as I do. I'm sorry to have been short with you."

  “You're entitled to be," Howard replied. "I promise I won't let this go on without finding who is doing this to your grandfather.”

  Walker knew that he'd eventually find the man or woman, and now that he'd talked to the librarians, it seemed it clearly was a man. This man would go to jail for quite a while for two counts of attempted murder for trying to burn down the shop with the owner inside, and at least two counts of arson.

  But he deeply regretted that he was still completely ignorant about the person who was responsible for the violent and vicious murder of Edwin McBride. Someone had to pay, perhaps with his own life, for that murder. Surely there would eventually be some clue to the perpetrator lurking in the back of his mind that would be blindingly obvious when his brain dislodged something trivial but important.

  He dropped by the train station, hoping to get some answers from Harry or Jim. He was astonished at how well the Robert Brewster Letter and Package Center was coming along. All of the boxes were finished and Harry was working on the doors and the hardware for the combination locks.

  “This is the
hardest and most expensive part of the job," Harry said. "The rest is easy. Making a sorting table in back, and putting in a door with a lock, so nobody else can get in except for Mrs. Gasset."

  “Where is Jim today?"

  “He's on an emergency call. One of Mrs. Smithson's hot water systems has blown up. He's turned off the water and gone to Poughkeepsie to buy a new one. Excuse me, but could you move over a bit? I'm ready for the next bank of slots to get their doors.”

  Walker took a seat as close as he could get without being in Harry's way. He didn't want to be overheard by anyone else. "Harry, did Edwin ever have company? Did any of his old friends from his neighborhood come to visit him?"

  “One tall blond man visited him. But it was weeks ago. Edwin told us he was an old friend from his childhood.”

  That confirmed what Deputy Parker had overheard. "Oh, there was one other visitor. That tart in the red dress who used to hang around in the middle of town.”

  “Did she stay?”

  Harry laughed. "No. Edwin was deeply embarrassed and told her to go away. He slammed the shed door in her face. I was working in the back of the house and saw and heard all of it. Then she came after me. I also told her to get lost. That I didn't need a disease. That really made her mad."

  “Nobody else? You're sure?"

  “No. How could I be sure? I'm seldom at home. Neither is Jim. We occasionally bring something home to work on, like Mrs. White's little chest, which she wanted painted red. But that's unusual." Harry went on, clearly annoyed by this conversation, which was interfering with his work. "If he'd had a friend visit, he probably wouldn't have even mentioned it. Besides, he spent most of his days at the train station. He'd sometimes buy a sandwich at Mabel's and take it home to eat between passenger trains."

  “I'm sorry to have taken up your time," Walker said, a bit angry for no good reason. Except for pure frustration. He still had no idea who and why somebody would murder a nice, hardworking man.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Tuesday, May 16, through Saturday, May 20

  ROBERT WOKE UP ON TUESDAY with a brilliant idea. He'd have to call Mr. Winchel immediately. The tickets for the mail sorting center were to go on sale the next day and the drawing would be the next Saturday.