The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  “If you don't know just where you're going in California, how are you having your mail forwarded?”

  “Fellow bought from me's going to hold it for me till I write him. But no letter's come yet could be from Albee. I phoned last night to make sure. Just a couple bills and circulars. No personal letters like could be from Albee even if he changed his name. I thought of that, son. May be a farmer, but I ain't dumb.”

  “That I see,” I said. “And you'll probably phone Kenosha once more the last thing before you start driving west?”

  “Right, except for the driving. Sold my pickup truck with the farm. Buy another in California. Be a hell of a long drive, rather go by train.”

  “Do you want written reports?” I asked him.

  “Don't see what good they'd do. Just phone me at the hotel what you find out. If I see any more movies before I go, I'll do it by day, stay there evenings so you can call me. Or Albee can, if you find him.”

  That seemed to cover everything anybody could think of so we let him leave. Uncle Am strolled into his inner office and I strolled after him.

  “What do you think, Uncle Am?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “That Albee took a powder. I think his papa thinks so too, but if he wants to let us spend a couple of days making a final try, more power to him. He's a stubborn old coot.”

  “Uh-huh” I said. “Well, I guess it's my turn to work on it. You put in four days' work last week and I got in only two. This'll even it up.”

  “Okay, kid. Going to take the car?”

  I shook my head. “Most of the places are pretty near here. I'll do it faster on foot or an occasional taxi hop than having to find places to park.”

  He yawned and took a deck of cards out of his desk to play some solitaire. “Okay. I'll be here till five. Think you'll work this evening, or call it half a day today?”

  “I might as well work through,” I said. “So don't figure on dinner with me and look for me when you see me.”

  I went back to my desk and took the paper I'd taken the notes on during my conversation with Chudakoff. And said so long to Uncle Am and left.

  I decided to go to the bookstore first. It might close at five, and the other addresses I had were personal ones and I'd probably stand a better chance of finding the people I wanted to talk to by evening than by day.

  It was the Prentice Bookstore on Michigan Avenue. I'd never been inside it, but I knew where it was. It took me about twenty minutes to walk there.

  There weren't any customers at the moment. A clerk up front, a girl, told me Mr. Heiden, the proprietor, was in his office at the back. I went back, found him studying some publishers' catalogs, introduced myself and showed him identification.

  “You let Albee Nielson go on Friday, the fifth?”

  “Yes. And haven't seen him. I told everything I knew to the detective---the city detective---that came here last week. Who you working for? The man he owed money to?”

  “For Albee's father,” I said. “He's worried about his son's disappearance. For his sake, do you mind answering a few more questions?”

  He gave me a grudging “What are they?” and put down the catalog he'd been looking at.

  “Why did you fire Albee?”

  “I'm afraid that that's one I won't answer.”

  “Had you given him notice?”

  “No.”

  “Then doesn't that pretty well answer the other question? You must have found that he was dipping in the till, or knocking down some way or other. But decided not to prosecute, and now it'd be too late, and it'd be slander if you said that about him.”

  He give me a smile, but a pretty thin one. “That wasn't a question, Mr. Hunter. I can't control what conclusions you may choose to draw.”

  “Would you give him a recommendation for another job?”

  “No, I wouldn't. But I would refuse to give my reasons for not giving one.”

  “That would be your privilege,” I admitted. And since I wasn't getting anywhere on that tract, I tried another. “Do you know anything about Albee's life outside the job? Names of any of his friends, anything at all about him personally?”

  “Not a thing, I'm afraid. Except his home address and telephone number, and of course you already have those. Before he started here I checked a couple of references he gave me, but I'm afraid I've forgotten now what they were except that they checked out all right. That was almost five years ago.”

  “Do you remember what kind of jobs they were?”

  “One was taking want-ads for a newspaper, but I forget which newspaper. The other was clerking in a hardware store---but I don't remember now even in what part of town it was. And as for friends of his, no. He must have, or have had, some, but none of them ever came here to see him. Almost as though he told them not to, as though he deliberately wanted to keep his business life and his social life completely separated. I've never known even what kind of friends he had. And he never talked about himself.”

  He was being friendly now and cooperating, once we'd skirted the subject of why he'd fired Albee. But his very refusal to answer that question, I thought, pretty well did answer it.

  So I did the only thing I could do, gave him a business card and asked him to call us if he did happen to think of anything at all that might be the slightest help in our finding Albee for his father. He promised to do that, and maybe he even meant it.

  On my way out, I saw the girl clerk was still or again free and asked her if she'd known Albee Nielson. The name registered, but only from seeing it on sales slips and employment records. She'd worked there only a week and had been taken on because Nielson, as she thought, had quit the job.

  So I went out into the hot July sunlight again. Next was Albee's pad, and his landlady. On a short street called Seneca, near the lake. Only a ten minute walk this time; he'd picked a place conveniently near to where he had worked. Handy to the beach, too, if he swam or sun-bathed.

  It was an old stone front, three stories, that had probably been a one-family residence in its day but had now been divided into a dozen rooms. That's how many mailboxes there were and there was a buzzer button under each. Nielson was the name on No. 9, and I pushed the buzzer button under it. Even took hold of the doorknob in case an answering buzz should indicate that the lock was being temporarily released. But I got just what I expected to get, no answering buzz. Well, that was good in one way; if Albee had been home and had let me come up to see him, we'd have had to give Floyd Nielson most of his hundred and fifty bucks. We couldn't have charged more than half a day's time, and expenses so far had run to zero.

  I went back and looked through the glass of Nielson's mailbox. There was something in it that looked like it was a bill, but I couldn't read the return address. The lock was one of those simple little ones that open with a tiny flat key; if I'd thought to bring our picklock along I could have had it open in thirty seconds, but one can't think of everything.

  I looked over the other mailboxes for a Mrs. Radcliffe; Chudakoff had said she was the landlady. Sure enough, it was No. 1, and had “Landlady” written under the name in the slot. I pushed her button and put my hand on the knob of the door; this time it buzzed and released itself and I went on through.

  Mrs. Radcliffe had the door of No. 1 opened and was waiting for me in the doorway. She was about fifty and was small and wiry. Chicago rooming house landladies come in all sizes but most of them have two things in common, hard eyes and a tough look. Mrs. Radcliffe wasn't one of the exceptions, and I was sure, too, that she hadn't named herself after a college she'd been graduated from.

  I gave her a business card and the song and dance about Albee's poor old father being worried about him, but it didn't soften her eyes any. Finally I got to questions.

  “When did you last see Albee, Mrs. Radcliffe?”

  “Don't remember exactly, but it was over a week ago. Then, just seeing him come in or go out. Last time I talked to him was on the first. Paid me a month's rent then; it's still his place til
l the end of the month, whether he comes back to it or not.”

  “Have you been in it, since then?”

  “No. I rent 'em as is, and people do their own cleaning. I don't go in, till after they've left, to get it cleaned up for the next tenant.”

  “Are they rented furnished or unfurnished?”

  “Unfurnished, except for stove and refrigerator; there's a kitchenette in each for them who want to do light housekeeping. And each one has its own bathroom. Couples live in a few of 'em, but they're fine for one person.”

  “Would you mind letting me look inside Albee's?”

  “Yes. It's his till his rent's up.”

  “But you let Lieutenant Chudakoff go up and look around. We're working the same side of the fence. In fact, he's a friend of mine.”

  “But he's a real cop and you're not. Bring him with you and I'll let you go up with him.”

  I sighed. “He's a busy man, Mrs. Radcliffe. If I get him to write you a letter, on police stationery, asking you to let me borrow a key, will that do?”

  “Guess so. Or even if he tells me over the phone.”

  I wondered how I'd been so stupid as not to think of that short cut. The phone, I'd already noticed, was a pay one, on the wall behind me. I got a dime out of my pocket and started for it.

  But she said, “Wait a minute. How do I know you'd dial the right number? You could call any number and have somebody there to say his name is Chudakoff. He gave me his card. I'll dial it.” Apparently she'd put the card on a stand right beside the door; she was able to get it without leaving the doorway. She held out a hand. “I'll use your dime, though.”

  While she dialed, I grinned to myself at how suspicious she was---and how right. I could have set it up with Uncle Am to have answered “Missing Persons. Chudakoff speaking.”

  She finished dialing and I heard her say, “Mr. Chudakoff please.” She listened a few seconds and then hung up.

  “He's out of the office, won't be back till tomorrow morning. You can try again then, if you've got another dime.”

  I sighed and decided to give up till tomorrow. Well, at least that's run the investigation into a second day.

  I said, “All right, I'll be back then. Mrs. Radcliffe, do you know any of Albee's friends?”

  “A few by sight, none by name. And, like I told Mr. Chudakoff, I wouldn't have an idea where he might of gone to, if he's really gone. Unless to see his father near Kenosha, and you say it's him that's looking for Albee.”

  I tried a new tack, not that I expected it to get me anywhere. “Has Albee been a good tenant?”

  “Except a couple of things. Played his phonograph too loud a time or two and others on the third floor complained and I told him about it. And something I don't hold with personally---he's brought a girl here. But that's his business, the way I look at it.”

  Well, I didn't pursue that. I had the girl's name on my list. I thanked Mrs. Radcliffe, and left. I'd be back tomorrow, I decided, but first I'd make sure Chudakoff would be in his office ready for the call.

  Next on my list was a Jerry Score, identified by Chudakoff as Albee's closest friend. Chudakoff hadn't got anything helpful out of him, but I could try. Especially as he lived only two blocks away, on Walton Place.

  It turned out to be a rooming house building pretty much like the one in which Albee had his pad, except with four stories and more rooms. Again I got silence in answer to buzzing the room, and again I tried a landlady, whose name turned out to be Mrs. Proust, although this one labeled herself “Proprietor.” This one was big, fat and sloppy, and the heat was getting her down.

  But she gave me the score on Jerry Score. He wouldn't be home; he was out of town for the day. She didn't know where, but he'd said he'd be back tomorrow. And she was sure he would be, because he was playing the second lead in a play for the Near Northers, a little theater group, and was having to rehearse almost every afternoon and evening. She told me where they were rehearsing and would be playing, an old theater on Clark Street that had once been a burlesque house and was now used only by little theater groups. And yes, she was sure he'd be there tomorrow afternoon because that was the last rehearsal before the dress rehearsal.

  She was panting by then and invited me in for a cold lemonade, probably because she wanted one herself, and the lemonade tasted good and she was bottled up with talk. Yes, she knew Jerry pretty well, he'd been with her for years. His job? He was a door-to-door canvasser, vacuum cleaners, and did pretty well at it. He liked that kind of work because he could set his own hours and that let him go in for amateur theatricals. He'd wanted to be a pro and had once made a try at Hollywood, but had given up and came back. He gave her duckets and she'd seen him act and thought he was pretty good. She was show people herself; back when, she'd been a pony in a chorus line, with a traveling troupe that had once played the very theater Jerry was now acting in.

  Yes, she knew Albee Nielson. Not real well, but she'd met him a few times, and had seen him act too. Yes, he'd been with the Near Northers, but not in the current play, and Jerry had told her, she thought about a week ago, that Albee had left town.

  In case she might be holding something back---although she sure didn't sound as though she was---I trotted out the poor old father bit for her, telling her that finding Albee for his father was the reason I wanted to see Jerry Score.

  It didn't help, but she'd have helped if she could. Jerry hadn't told her where Albee had gone, and she didn't think Jerry knew. I believed her and was convinced she couldn't tell me more than she had about Albee; that is, anything that would be helpful in finding him.

  Not that she wasn't willing to keep on talking---about anything at all. I had to make my escape or soon she'd have been bringing out her press clippings and theatrical photos of two dozen years ago. But I liked her and promised to come back some time, and meant it.

  It was five o'clock. The next name on my list was Honey Howard, Albee's inamorata. She lived a taxi jump away, on Schiller Street a couple blocks west of Clark Street. But the Graydon Theater, the ex-burlesque house that was now used only by little theater groups like and including the Near Northers, was on Clark just a block or two from Schiller, so I decided to take a taxi there, and walk to Honey's from the theater. Probably I'd find no one at the theater, but if they'd had an afternoon rehearsal without Jerry Score and it had run late, someone might still be there.

  I used the phone in the hallway near Mrs. Proust's door to call a cab and waited for it outside. Surprisingly, for such a rush hour, it came fairly quickly, and it was only five-thirty when I disembarked in front of the Graydon.

  I walked through the lobby, its walls ornate with plaster nymphs and satyrs, and tried the doors but found them locked. But there'd be a stage entrance around off the alley and I headed for it, neared it just in time to see a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman turn a key in the lock of the door and come toward me. I begged his pardon and asked if he was connected with the Near Northers.

  He smiled. “You might almost say I am the Near Northers, young man. I started the group four years ago and have been manager ever since and director of every alternate play we've put on since. I'm directing the current one. What can I do for you?”

  I introduced myself and told him I was interested in Albee Nielson, and why.

  He told me that he didn't know a lot about Albee personally, but he'd be glad to tell me what he did know. Where should we talk? We could go back into the theater, or there was a quiet bar a block down the street if I cared to have a drink with him.

  It was half past five and I decided on the drink. I'd be eating soon, maybe before I looked up Honey Howard if my talk with the little theater group's manager-director ran very long.

  He introduced himself, while we walked, as Carey Evers. The name sounded vaguely familiar to me, and it occurred to me that

  his face was slightly familiar too. I asked him if I'd ever seen him before, possibly on television or in movies.

  Quite probably, he told m
e, if I ever watched old movies on late-late shows. He'd started in them about the time they were making the transition from silents to talkies. He'd played bit parts and character roles. Never important parts, never starred, but he'd been in a hundred and sixty-four movies. A great many of them were B's, most of them in fact, but they were still being rerun on television. He'd never tried to make the transition to television per se. He'd retired seven years ago.

  We were in the bar, sitting in a booth over drinks, by that time. He stopped talking, waiting for me to start asking my questions about Albee, but instead I asked him how much time he had.

  He glanced at his watch. “An hour or so. Dinner date at seven, but it's near here; I won't have to leave until a quarter of.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then keep on about yourself for at least a few more minutes. How you came to Chicago after you retired, and how you started the Near Northers.”

  He'd bought a place in Malibu when he'd retired, he told me, but he'd never liked California. “Hated the place, in fact. And I'd been born and raised in Chicago---broke into show business here, night club work---and didn't go to Hollywood till I was almost thirty. And I found myself homesick for Chicago after I had nothing to do out there, so I sold the Malibu place within a year and came back. Bought a house on Lake Shore Drive, but near the Near North Side, my old haunt.

  “And after a while, found myself bored with nothing to do, and homesick for show biz again, and discovered little theater. Worked with two other groups, and then started my own. It's wonderful. I work fourteen hours a day, except when I rest between plays, and love it.”

  He grinned wryly. “And these kids love me---if only because I'm angel as well as manager-director.” He explained that almost all little theater groups operated at a deficit, especially if they wanted to do good work and put on good plays, the public be damned, and still keep ticket prices low enough so they'd have a good audience to play to.