Farewell, My Lovely

16

The block looked just as it had looked the day before. The street was empty except for an ice truck, two Fords in driveways, and a swirl of dust going around a corner. I drove slowly past No. 1644 and parked farther along and studied the houses on either side of mine. I walked back and stopped in front of it, looking at the tough palm tree and the drab unwatered scrap of lawn. The house seemed empty, but probably wasn’t. It just had that look. The lonely rocker on the front porch stood just where it had stood yesterday. There was a throw-away paper on the walk. I picked it up and slapped it against my leg and then I saw the curtain move next door, in the near front window.

Old Nosey again. I yawned and tilted my hat down. A sharp nose almost flattened itself against the inside of the glass. White hair above it, and eyes that were just eyes from where I stood. I strolled along the sidewalk and the eyes watched me. I turned in towards her house. I climbed the wooden steps and rang the bell.

The door snapped open as if it had been on a spring. She was a tall old bird with a chin like a rabbit. Seen from close her eyes were as sharp as lights on still water. I took my hat off.

“Are you the lady who called the police about Mrs. Florian?”

She stared at me coolly and missed nothing about me, probably not even the mole on my right shoulder blade.

“I ain’t sayin’ I am, young man, and I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t. Who are you?” It was a high twangy voice, made for talking over an eight party line.

“I’m a detective.”

“Land’s sakes. Why didn’t you say so? What’s she done now? I ain’t seen a thing and I ain’t missed a minute. Henry done all the goin’ to the store for me. Ain’t been a sound out of there.”

She snapped the screen door unhooked and drew me in. The hall smelled of furniture oil. It had a lot of dark furniture that had once been in good style. Stuff with inlaid panels and scallops at the corners. We went into a front room that had cotton lace antimacassars pinned on everything you could stick a pin into.

“Say, didn’t I see you before?” she asked suddenly, a note of suspicion crawling around in her voice. “Sure enough I did. You was the man that — “

“That’s right. And I’m still a detective. Who’s Henry?”

“Oh, he’s just a little colored boy that goes errands for me. Well, what you want, young man?” She patted a clean red and white apron and gave me the beady eye. She clicked her store teeth a couple of times for practice.

“Did the officers come here yesterday after they went to Mrs. Florian’s house?”

“What officers?”

“The uniformed officers,” I said patiently.

“Yes, they was here a minute. They didn’t know nothing.”

“Describe the big man to me — the one that had a gun and made you call up.”

She described him, with complete accuracy. It was Malloy all right.

“What kind of car did he drive?”

“A little car. He couldn’t hardly get into it.”

“That’s all you can say? This man’s a murderer!”

Her mouth gaped, but her eyes were pleased. “Land’s sakes, I wish I could tell you, young man. But I never knew much about cars. Murder, eh? Folks ain’t safe a minute in this town. When I come here twenty-two years ago we didn’t lock our doors hardly. Now it’s gangsters and crooked police and politicians fightin’ each other with machine guns, so I’ve heard. Scandalous is what it is, young man.”

“Yeah. What do you know about Mrs. Florian?”

The small mouth puckered. “She ain’t neighborly. Plays her radio loud late nights. Sings. She don’t talk to anybody.” She leaned forward a little. “I’m not positive, but my opinion is she drinks liquor.”

“She have many visitors?”

“She don’t have no visitors at all.”

“You’d know, of course, Mrs. — “

“Mrs. Morrison. Land’s sakes, yes. What else have I got to do but look out of the windows?”

“I bet it’s fun. Mrs. Florian has lived here a long time — “

“About ten years, I reckon. Had a husband once. Looked like a bad one to me. He died.” She paused and thought “I guess he died natural,” she added. “I never heard different.”

“Left her money?”

Her eyes receded and her chin followed them. She sniffed hard. “You been drinkin’ liquor,” she said coldly.

“I just had a tooth out. The dentist gave it to me.”

“I don’t hold with it.”

“It’s bad stuff, except for medicine,” I said.

“I don’t hold with it for medicine neither.”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “Did he leave her money? Her husband?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Her mouth was the size of a prune and as smooth. I had lost out.

“Has anybody at all been there since the officers?”

“Ain’t seen.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Morrison. I won’t trouble you any more now. You’ve been very kind and helpful.”

I walked out of the room and opened the door. She followed me and cleared her throat and clicked her teeth a couple more times.

“What number should I call?” she asked, relenting a little.

“University 4-5000. Ask for Lieutenant Nulty. What does she live on — relief?”

“This ain’t a relief neighborhood,” she said coldly.

“I bet that side piece was the admiration of Sioux Falls once,” I said, gazing at a carved sideboard that was in the hall because the dining room was too small for it. It had curved ends, thin carved legs, was inlaid all ever, and had a painted basket of fruit on the front.

“Mason City,” she said softly. “Yessir, we had a nice home once, me and George. Best there was.”

I opened the screen door and stepped through it and thanked her again. She was smiling now. Her smile was as sharp as her eyes.

“Gets a registered letter first of every month,” she said suddenly.

I turned and waited. She leaned towards me. “I see the mailman go up to the door and get her to sign. First day of every month. Dresses up then and goes out. Don’t come home till all hours. Sings half the night. Times I could have called the police it was so loud.”

I patted the thin malicious arm.

“You’re one in a thousand, Mrs. Morrison,” I said. I put my hat on, tipped it to her and left. Halfway down the walk I thought of something and swung back. She was still standing inside the screen door, with the house door open behind her. I went back up on the steps.

“Tomorrow’s the first,” I said. “First of April. April Fool’s Day. Be sure to notice whether she gets her registered letter, will you, Mrs. Morrison?”

The eyes gleamed at me. She began to laugh — a highpitched old woman’s laugh. “April Fool’s Day,” she tittered. “Maybe she won’t get it.”

I left her laughing. The sound was like a hen having hiccups.