“Did you see the cops downstairs?” he asked at once.

  “Yes,” Roger said.

  “Something, huh?” Fook said, his eyes gleaming.

  “What do they want?”

  “Don’t you know what happened?”

  “No. What?”

  “Somebody robbed the bloodsucker.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Dougherty, Dougherty, our landlady, who do you think I mean?”

  “She’s a nice lady,” Roger said.

  “Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy,” Fook said. “A nice lady, oh boy oh boy.”

  “She seems like a nice lady to me,” Roger said.

  “That’s because you’ve only been here a few days,” Fook said. “I’ve been living in this dump for six years now, six years, and I’m telling you she’s a bloodsucker and a tightwad and the meanest old bitch who ever walked the Earth, that’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Well,” Roger said, and shrugged.

  “I’m glad they robbed the old bitch.”

  “What’d they take?”

  “Not enough,” Fook said. “You got a drink in here?”

  “What? No, I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My room. I’ve got a bottle in there. Have you got some glasses?”

  “Just the one on the sink there.”

  “I’ll bring my own,” Fook said, and went out.

  Well, Roger thought, I suppose she had to find out it was missing sooner or later. It was just that I didn’t expect her to find out so soon. Or maybe I didn’t expect her to call the police even if she did find out. But she did, and she has, and they’re downstairs now, so maybe this is as good a time as any to get drunk with Fook. No, I’m supposed to meet Amelia at 3:30.

  I should have been more careful.

  Still, at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.

  Maybe it was.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  It was Fook. He came in carrying a partially filled bottle of bourbon with a water glass turned upside down over the neck of the bottle. He put the bottle down on the dresser and then walked quickly to the sink, where he picked up Roger’s glass. He went back to the dresser, put Roger’s glass down, lifted the upturned glass from the neck of the bottle, put that one down beside the other and then lifted the bottle.

  “Say when,” he said.

  “I’m not a drinker,” Roger said.

  “Neither am I,” Fook said, and winked and poured half a tumblerful of whiskey.

  “That’s too much for me,” Roger said.

  “All right, I’ll have this one,” Fook said, and began pouring into the other glass.

  “That’s enough,” Roger said.

  “Have a little more. We’re celebrating.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  Fook poured another finger of whiskey into Roger’s glass and then carried it to him. He extended his own glass and said, “Here’s to Mrs. Dougherty’s loss, may the old bitch be uncovered.”

  “Uncovered?”

  “By insurance.” Fook winked, raised his glass to his lips, and took a healthy swallow of the bourbon. “Also, may this be only the first of a long line of losses to come. May some no-good thief sneak into the lady’s basement tomorrow night and steal perhaps her washtub, and the next night her oil burner, and the next night her underwear hanging on a line down there. May all the crooks in this crumby city come to Mrs. Dougherty’s basement night after night and pick it clean like a bunch of vultures going over her bones. May loss pile upon loss until the old bitch has nothing left but the clothes on her back, and then may some bold rapist climb through her window one night and do a job on the scrawny wretch, leaving her nary a nightgown to keep her warm. Amen,” Fook said, and drained his glass. He poured it full again, almost to the brim. “You’re not drinking, my friend,” he said.

  “I’m drinking,” Roger answered, and sipped at the bourbon.

  “An icebox,” Fook said.

  Roger said nothing.

  “It strikes me as amusing that anybody would come into Mrs. Dougherty’s basement and steal an icebox, I beg your pardon a refrigerator, that has been sitting there for God knows how long gathering dust. It raises a great many questions which to me are both amusing and amazing,” Fook said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like number one, how would anyone know the old bitch had an icebox, I beg your pardon, a refrigerator, in the basement? How many times have you been in the basement of this building?”

  “I’ve never been in the basement,” Roger said.

  “Exactly. I’ve lived in this crumby dump for six full years, and I’ve been down there only twice, once to put an old trunk of mine on a shelf and another time when Mother Dougherty fainted at the sight of a rat down there and screamed loud enough to wake the whole building, me included, who went down there to find the scrawny witch spread-eagled on the floor unconscious with her dress up around her skinny ass, a sight to make a man puke, have another drink.”

  “I haven’t finished this one yet.”

  “So how would anyone know there was a refrigerator down there, that’s number one. And if he did know about the refrigerator, then he also knew it was a vintage appliance, circa 1939 or ‘40 and worth perhaps ten dollars, if not less. Why would a man go to the trouble of stealing a decrepit wreck like that? Why, lifting the thing alone would be enough to give a man a hernia.” Fook poured another drink and then said, “I’m talking about a normal man like myself. A man your size could lift it without batting an eyelash.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Roger said, and shrugged.

  “In any case,” Fook said, “how would anyone know it was down there, number one—and number two, why would anyone want to steal a piece of garbage worth at most five or six dollars?”

  “Maybe he had some need for it,” Roger suggested.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Roger said.

  “What…whyever he did it, I’m glad he did it. I only wish he’d taken more while he was at it. Isn’t it just like that old bitch, though, to go screaming to the cops immediately over a piece of junk like that old refrigerator? She’s tying up the whole damn police force over a machine that was worth three or four bucks.”

  “Well, there were only two cops down there,” Roger said.

  “Those are the beat cops,” Fook said. “In a burglary, they always precede the bulls. You wait and see. The bulls’ll be here today asking questions and snooping around, wasting the taxpayers’ time and money, and all for a lousy refrigerator that wouldn’t bring two and a half bucks on the open market, have another drink.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said, and extended his glass.

  The knock on the door awakened him.

  Fook had left at about a quarter to 3:00, taking the remainder of the bourbon with him. Roger had drunk only the two drinks, but he wasn’t used to hard whiskey, and he must have begun dozing shortly afterward. He wondered what time it was now. He couldn’t have been asleep too long. He sat up in bed and looked around the room, dazed, and then blinked as the knock sounded again.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Police,” the voice answered.

  Police, he thought.

  “Just a moment,” he said.

  It was probably about the refrigerator. Fook had said detectives would come around asking about the refrigerator. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and went to the door. It was unlocked. He twisted the knob and opened the door wide.

  Two men were standing in the hallway. One was very tall, and the other was short. The tall one had red hair with a jagged white streak across the right temple.

  “Mr. Broome?” the short one said.

  “Yes?” Roger answered.

  “I’m Detective Willis,” the short one said.

  “This is my partner, Detective Horse. We wonder if we could ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, come in,” Roger said.

  He moved back and away from the door. Willis entered the room first and then Horse—had he said Horse?—came in after him and closed the door. Roger sat on the edge of the bed and then indicated the two chairs in the room and said, “Have a seat, won’t you?”

  Willis sat in the hard-backed chair near the dresser. Horse— his name couldn’t be Horse—stood just behind the chair, one hand resting on the dresser. They were both wearing heavy overcoats. Willis kept his buttoned. The other one had opened his; he was wearing a plaid sports jacket. Roger could see a leather gun holster clipped to his waist in the opening of the coat and jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “what did you say your name was?”

  “Me?” the redheaded one asked.

  “Yes. Um-huh.”

  “Hawes.”

  Roger nodded.

  “H-A-W-E-S,” the detective said.

  “Oh.” Roger smiled. “I thought you said Horse.”

  “No.”

  “That would be a funny name. Horse, I mean.”

  “No, it’s Hawes.”

  “Sure,” Roger said.

  The room went silent.

  “Mr. Broome,” Willis said, “we got a list of all the tenants from your landlady, Mrs. Dougherty, and we’re just making a routine check through the building. I guess you know a refrigerator was stolen from the basement sometime last night.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How did you hear about it, Mr. Broome?” Hawes asked.

  “Fook told me. Fook Shanahan. He has a room down the hall.”

  “Fook?” Hawes said.

  “I think his real name is Frank Hubert Shanahan, or something like that. Fook is a nickname.”

  “I see,” Hawes said. “When did he tell you about it, Mr. Broome?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. What time is it now?”

  Willis looked at his watch. “Three o’clock.”

  “About a half-hour ago, I guess. Or maybe fifteen minutes, I don’t know. He stopped in to tell me about it, and we had a few drinks.”

  “But you hadn’t known about the refrigerator until he told you, is that right?”

  “That’s right. Well, actually, I knew something was wrong when I got home a little while ago because I saw Mrs. Dougherty downstairs talking to two policemen.”

  “But you didn’t know exactly what was wrong until Mr. Shanahan told you about the refrigerator.”

  “That’s right.”

  The two detectives looked at him and said nothing. It almost seemed for a moment that they had no further questions. Willis cleared his throat.

  “You understand, Mr. Broome,” he said, “that this is all routine, and we’re in no way implying—”

  “Oh, sure,” Roger said.

  “The logical place to start an investigation, though, is with the tenants of a building, those who would have had access—”

  “Oh, sure,” Roger said.

  “—to the item or items stolen.”

  “Sure.”

  The room went silent again.

  “Mr. Broome, I wonder if you could tell us where you were last night.”

  “What time last night?”

  “Well, let’s start with dinner. Where did you have dinner?”

  “Gee, I don’t remember,” Roger said. “Someplace around here, a little Italian restaurant.” He paused. “I’m not too familiar with the city, you see. I don’t get in too often. I’ve only been here a few days this trip.”

  “Doing what, Mr. Broome?”

  “Selling woodenware.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Broome? What kind of woodenware?”

  “We’ve got a little shop up home, we make coffee tables and bowls, spoons, things like that. We sell the stuff to places in the city. That’s why I’m here.”

  “When do you plan to go home?”

  “I really should be getting back tonight.” Roger shrugged. “I sold all the stuff yesterday. I’ve really got no reason to hang around.”

  “Where is that, Mr. Broome? Your home.”

  “Carey.” He paused. “It’s near Huddleston,” he said automatically.

  “Oh, yes,” Hawes said.

  “You know it?”

  “I’ve skied Mount Torrance,” Hawes said.

  “You have?”

  “Yes. Nice area up there.”

  “Well, our shop is on I-90, just east of Huddleston. The turnoff just before the mountain road.”

  “Oh, yes,” Hawes said.

  “How about that?” Roger said, and he smiled. “Small world.”

  “It sure is,” Hawes said, and returned the smile.

  “What time would you say you had dinner, Mr. Broome?” Willis asked.

  “Must’ve been about five.”

  “So early?”

  “Well, we eat early back home, I guess I’m used to it.” He shrugged.

  “What’d you do after dinner?”

  “Came back here.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Six-thirty? Around then.”

  “Did you stay in after that?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “To a bar.”

  “Where?”

  “Right in the neighborhood, oh, no more’n six or seven blocks from here, walking south on Twelfth Street.”

  “Would you remember the name of the bar?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I really went out for a walk. I only stopped in the bar because I was getting kind of chilly. I’m not usually a drinking man.”

  “But you did have a drink with Mr. Shanahan just a little while ago, didn’t you?” Hawes asked.

  “Oh, yeah, that,” Roger said, and laughed. “We were celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t even tell you this, you’ll get the wrong idea.”

  “What’s that?” Hawes said, smiling.

  “Well, Fook doesn’t care too much for Mrs. Dougherty, you know. He was glad somebody stole her old refrigerator.” Roger laughed again. “So he wanted to have a few drinks to celebrate.”

  “You don’t think he stole it, do you?” Willis said.

  “Who? Fook? No.” Roger shook his head. “Oh, no, he wouldn’t do anything like that. He was just glad it happened, that’s all. No. Listen, I don’t mean to get Fook in trouble by what I said. He’s a very nice person. He’s not a thief, I can tell you that.”

  “Mm-huh,” Willis said. “What time did you leave the bar, Mr. Broome?”

  “Midnight? I don’t know. About then.”

  “Do you have a watch?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not sure it was midnight.”

  “It must’ve been around then. I was pretty sleepy. I usually get pretty sleepy around that time.”

  “Were you alone?” Hawes asked.

  “Yes,” Roger said, and looked at the detectives squarely and wondered if they could tell he had just lied to them for the first time.

  “What’d you do when you left the bar?”

  “Came back here,” Roger said. That was true, anyway. He had come back to his room.

  “And then what?”

  “I went to bed.” That was true, too.

  “Did you go right to sleep?”

  “Well, not right off.” He was still telling the truth. More or less.

  “When did you fall asleep?” Hawes asked.

  “Oh, I don’t really remember. A half hour, an hour. It’s hard to tell just when you drop off, you know.”

  “Mmm,” Willis said, “it is. Did you hear anything strange while you were in bed trying to fall asleep?”

  “What do you mean, strange?”

  “Any strange noises?”

  “Anything out of the ordinary,” Hawes said.

  “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Anything wake you during the night?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t hear any noises in the street outside, you know, maybe men’s voices, or the sound of someone struggling with a heavy load, anything like that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Or something being dragged or pulled?”

  “No. This is the third floor,” Roger said. “Be pretty hard to hear anything like that, even if I wasn’t asleep.” He paused. “I’m a pretty sound sleeper.” He paused again. “Excuse me, but would you know what time it is?”

  Willis looked at his watch. “Three-ten,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you have an appointment, Mr. Broome?”

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to meet somebody.”

  “What do you suppose that refrigerator was worth?” Hawes asked suddenly.

  “I don’t know,” Roger said. “I never saw it.”

  “Have you ever been down in the basement of this building?”

  “No,” Roger said.

  “Mrs. Dougherty says it was worth about fifty dollars,” Willis said. “Do you agree with her?”

  “I never saw it,” Roger said, “so I couldn’t say. Fook says it wasn’t worth more than a few dollars.”

  “The only reason we bring up the value,” Willis said, “is that it would make a difference in the charge.”

  “The charge?”

  “Yes, the criminal charge. If the value was under twenty-five dollars, it would be petit larceny. That’s only a misdemeanor.”

  “I see,” Roger said.

  “If the crime’s committed at night, and the property is taken from the person of another,” Willis went on, “that’s automatically grand larceny. But if it was taken from a dwelling place…” Willis paused. “Somebody’s house, you know?”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, and at night also, then the value has to be more than twenty-five dollars for it to be grand larceny.”

  “Oh,” Roger said.

  “Yeah. Grand larceny’s a felony, you know. You can get up to ten years on a grand larceny conviction.”

  “Is that right?” Roger said. “For a measly twenty-five dollars? Boy!” He shook his head.

  “Oh, sure,” Willis said. He looked at Hawes. “You got any questions, Cotton?”