In
the Alley, With a Candlestick
The
woman in the low-cut red dress looked at me like a hungry cat staring
into a pet-store window. I later realized that she hadn’t turned up
the heat just for me, her furnace ran wide open all the time, even at
her husband’s funeral. I know. I was there. My name is Deadbolt,
Hasp Deadbolt. I’m a P.I. Anyway, when she slunk into my office
that first time, I thought she was out to pry something loose from my
smoldering naked corpse. I was about ready to let her give it a shot,
too.
I
mopped my brow with a blue handkerchief a client had given me and got
to my feet. That was probably a mistake, since heat rises.
“What
can I do for you, Miss…?”
“Nimble,
Mr. Deadbolt. Natalia Nimble. I need your help.” She sat demurely
enough in the client chair, but then she leaned forward earnestly and
looked me in the eye. I started pacing in a futile attempt to pump
some blood back towards my brain. It would have hurt to sit down just
then anyway.
“It’s
my husband,” she went on, “He’s been murdered.” I could not
entirely suppress an eager twinge.
Ms.
Nimble’s husband John had left work at the automobile factory when
the whistle blew, but he’d never made it home. His charred and
smoking corpse had been found the next morning in an alley behind The
Plate and Spoon, a tavern that catered to food-service workers.
Across the alley was a warehouse belonging to Sprat and Son Cannery.
I figured Nimble for a regular at the old Dish and Cutlery, so that
was my first stop after I ushered his widow out of my office. The
fresh air helped to clear my head, and by the time I got to the
Saucer and Utensil I had some questions in mind. The place wasn’t
very hygienic despite its culinary appellation; I wouldn’t have
eaten anything there. The D&C had apparently taken over a
moribund taxidermy shop, and there were still some scrofulous
examples of the art in the bar’s front window. A pair of moth-eaten
woodchucks was portrayed playing cards at a dusty table next to a
battered moose head that had seen better centuries. I pushed open the
cracked gray door and stepped into a haze of tobacco smoke. Breathing
shallowly, I made my way up to the bar. The place was crowded with
wobbly little tables like the one in the window, but customers were
few. The bartender, a fat man wearing a pair of gray muttonchop
sideburns and a filthy apron that might once have been white, waddled
over from where he had been smearing dirt around inside glasses. I
dropped a coin on the counter, but held up my hand.
“There’s
the price of a beer,” I said, “but I don’t want a beer. I’m
looking for information.”
The
bartender spat. “Beer’s on sale this week, but answers come high.
Show me that fellow’s brother and I might have time to see if I
remember anything.” He wiped his hands on his apron and folded them
across his chest.
I
dug in my pocket for some more change. “I’m looking for a guy who
probably came in here Friday night. Dark hair, medium height, thin
moustache, name of John. He works at the auto plant.”
“Steamy
wife?”
“That’s
the one.”
“Yeah!
Regular in here. Almost every night. Didn’t see ‘im Friday
though.”
“Are
you sure?” I asked, “this place might get a little crowded on
Friday.”
“Oh
yeah, real crowded. But I know I didn’t miss ‘im.”
“How
can you be so sure?” I asked again.
“Because
I wasn’t here on Friday.”
I
made a comment about the decrepit taxidermy in the window and headed
for the door.
“Same
to you, buddy,” one of the woodchucks snapped, and laid down its
cards.
I
decided to check out the alley and the cannery warehouse before
visiting the bartender who’d been working Friday.
The
warehouse was locked. No one was around, so I jimmied the back door.
The place was empty. When I say empty, I don’t mean there wasn’t
much stuff in there. There weren’t even interior walls. The
building was completely bare. I scouted around a bit, but didn’t
find any clues. I left the way I came in and went around to the
front. There I found a sign on the door: “for lease.” It didn’t
look like Sprat was using the warehouse or even planning to.
Finally
I took a stroll down the alley in which John Nimble had been found. A
blackened spot on the filthy pavement retained the odor of burnt
flesh. I also found some pearly translucent residue stuck to the
ground near the burnt area. I scraped some up and put it in a plastic
bag. It might be a clue.
I
sent the sample off to a lab for analysis, and nosed around town,
looking for people who knew John Nimble. I kept hearing the same
thing:
“Oh
yeah, I know ‘im. Have you seen his wife?! Whew!! He is one lucky
guy.”
Eventually
I caught up with the Friday-night bartender. His name was Gus and he
lived in a shoe.
“What
happened to the old lady?”
“She
died. Her kids needed more space, so they sold me the whole shebang.
I like the place well enough, but it has no sole.”
I
asked him if Nimble had been in the bar. Gus allowed as how he’d
seen Nimble tossing back a few beers.
“Drinking
a lot?” I asked.
“No.
He just had a few. He does that most Fridays. Stressful job, I
guess.”
“His
wife with him?”
“Are
you kidding?! John wouldn’t be able to get to the bar to order a
beer if he brought her along. Everyone in the whole place would be
buzzing around their table trying to get a sip of her nectar. Poor
guy.”
“That’s
funny, most people say he was lucky to have her.”
Gus
just snorted derisively and laced up his door.
My
next stop was the Nimble manse. I didn't really need to talk to the
voluptuous widow; I wanted a look at the house. It was nothing more
than a fishing expedition, but sometimes you catch a pretty good fish
that way. Okay, maybe I did want another look at Ms. Nimble.
Anyway, I looked around the house, a small ranch out in an old suburb
that was completely undistinguished. Nothing jumped out at me, and I
left before I forgot to breathe.
When
I got back to my office I put my feet up to think things through.
Putting up my feet forces more blood to my brain; I always think
better that way. Had John Nimble been a happy guy or a sad one? Lucky
or unlucky? Murdered (and why?) or suicide? The pieces of the puzzle
were just starting to whir around in my head when the phone rang. It
was the lab.
“Hey
Pam, what’s the good word?”
“Alma’s
got a ring through your nose and you don’t dare harass me for a
date any more.”
“Besides
that,” I said.
“Oh,
about that stuff you sent me? The gunk you found near where the guy
was burned? Paraffin. No help there I guess.”
“On
the contrary, I think things are starting to fall together,” I told
her, and hung up. Harass indeed!
It
was about 4 p.m. when I got off the phone with Pam, and I headed back
to the Plate and Spoon. On the way, I paid a visit to Nimble’s
Doctor. He had knocked off for the day, which suited my purposes,
because I wanted a look at Nimble’s medical files. I had a hunch
the good doctor wouldn’t have let me peek at them if he’d been
the office. Next I stopped by to talk to the Coroner. She owed me a
favor. I had pulled her bacon out of the fire in the affair of the
Big Bad Wolf.
“Hey
curly tail, what’s happening?”
“Nothing
that a few stiff drinks won’t cure. Wazzup?”
I
asked her a few questions and she told me what I wanted to know.
“Thanks
a bunch,” I said, “Toss back a few for me.” Of course, I was on
my way to a bar, but I didn’t intend to do any drinking.
I
picked out a table in a dark corner. Actually, all the corners were
dark. I arrived shortly before 5, and barely 15 minutes later my
quarry walked in the door. I waited in till he’d about half
finished his second beer and then I strolled over to his table.
“Mind
if I sit here?” I asked, pulling out a chair without waiting for a
reply.
“Guess
not,” he mumbled, and made to go. I put my hand on his arm.
“Pretty
dumb move, John, staying in town. You couldn’t hide forever even if
I wasn’t on the case.”
He
jerked his arm away and slouched down in the seat. “How’d you
find me?”
“Hello!!
This is your favorite bar. This is your regular time. And that
beat-up fedora and dime-store mustache aren’t fooling anyone. Why?”
“But
how’d you figure it out? For all everyone was supposed to know, I
was dead.”
“John,
I hope your fingers are nimble cos your brain sure isn’t. You stole
the body of a pyrophobe from the morgue. You think people aren’t
going to notice that? Besides you’re no pyrophobe. You don’t
smoke, but several of your friends told me stories about you lighting
campfires, toasting marshmallows, etc. Your house has a fireplace
that obviously gets regular use. Why did you want to disappear?”
He
put his head down, shoulders convulsing. His muffled voice came
haltingly.
“You
don’t know what it’s like. That woman is insatiable. I never get
any sleep! We can’t go anywhere without being mobbed by a crowd of
lust-crazed fools. And the air-conditioning bill is out of sight!
It’s not Nat’s fault, but I just can’t take it anymore.”
“That’s
pathetic, Jack. Go home before I smack you.”
He
did.
I’d
like to say they lived happily ever after, but they didn’t. Jack B.
Nimble was divorced inside of a year, and maybe he was happier after
that. As for Natalia, she cut a swath through the young men of this
city that will be remembered for generations. I hear she ended up
joining a commune way out in the forest. Bunch of diminutive miners
who’d lived alone their whole lives, except for a brief escapade
with a princess a few years back. Must be a story to tell there!
END
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