101 Mystery Stories

20 The Little Things Isaac Asimov

Mrs. Clara Bernstein was somewhat past fifty and the temperature outside was somewhat past ninety. The air conditioning was working, but though it removed the fact of heat it didn’t remove the idea of heat.

Mrs. Hester Gold, who was visiting the 21st floor from her own place in 4-G, said, “It’s cooler down on my floor.” She was over fifty, too, and had blond hair that didn’t remove a single year from her age.

Clara said, “It’s the little things, really. I can stand the head. It’s the dripping I can’t stand. Don’t you hear it?”

“No,” said Hester, “But I know what you mean. My boy, Joe, has a button off his blazer. Seventy-two dollars, and without the button it’s nothing. A fancy brass button on the sleeve and he doesn’t have it to sew back on.”

“So what’s the problem? Take one off the other sleeve also.”

“Not the same. The blazer just won’t look good. If a button is loose, don’t wait, get it sewed. Twenty-two years old and he still doesn’t understand. He goes off, he doesn’t tell me when he’ll be back—”

Clara said impatiently. “Listen. How can you say you don’t hear the dripping? Come with me to the bathroom. If I tell you it’s dripping, it’s dripping.”

Hester followed and assumed an attitude of listening. In the silence it could be heard — drip — drip — drip—

Clara said, “Like water torture. You hear it all night. Three nights now.”

Hester adjusted her large faintly tinted glasses, as though that would make her hear better, and cocked her head. She said, “Probably the shower dripping upstairs, in 22-G. It’s Mrs. Maclaren’s place. I know her. Listen, she’s a good-hearted person. Knock on her door and tell her. She won’t bite your head off.”

Clara said, “I’m not afraid of her. I banged on her door five times already. No one answers. I phoned her. No one answers.”

“So she’s away,” said Hester. “It’s summertime. People go away.”

“And if she’s away for the whole summer, do I have to listen to the dripping a whole summer?”

“Tell the super.”

“That idiot. He doesn’t have the key to her special lock and he won’t break in for a drip. Besides, she’s not away. I know her automobile and it’s downstairs in the garage right now.”

Hester said uneasily: “She could go away in someone else’s car.”

Clara sniffed. “That I’m sure of. Mrs. Maclaren.”

Hester frowned. “So she’s divorced. It’s not so terrible. And she’s still maybe thirty — thirty-five — and she dresses fancy. Also not so terrible.”

“If you want my opinion, Hester,” said Clara, “what she’s doing up there I wouldn’t like to say. I hear things.”

“What do you hear?”

“Footsteps. Sounds. Listen, she’s right above and I know where her bedroom is.”

Hester said tartly, “Don’t be so old-fashioned. What she does is her business.”

“All right. But she uses the bathroom a lot, so why does she leave it dripping? I wish she would answer the door. I’ll bet anything she’s got a decor in her apartment like a French I-don’t-know-what.”

“You’re wrong, if you want to know. You’re plain wrong. She’s got regular furniture and lots of houseplants.”

“And how do you know that?”

Hester looked uncomfortable. “I water the plants when she’s not home. She’s a single woman. She goes on trips, so I help her out.”

“Oh? Then you would know if she was out of town. Did she tell you she’d be out of town?”

“No, she didn’t.”

Clara leaned back and folded her arms. “And you have the keys to her place then?”

Hester said, “Yes, but I can’t just go in.”

“Why not? She could be away. So you have to water her plants.”

“She didn’t tell me to.”

Clara said, “For all you know she’s sick in bed and can’t answer the door.”

“She’d have to be pretty sick not to use the phone when it’s right near the bed.”

“Maybe she had a heart attack. Listen, maybe she’s dead and that’s why she doesn’t shut off the drip.”

“She’s a young woman. She wouldn’t have a heart attack.”

“You can’t be sure. With the life she lives — maybe a boyfriend killed her. We’ve got to go in.”

“That’s breaking and entering,” said Hester.

“With a key? If she’s away you can’t leave the plants to die. You water them and I’ll shut off the drip. What harm? — And if she’s dead, do you want her to lay there till who knows when?”

“She’s not dead,” said Hester, but she went downstairs to the fourth floor for Mrs. Maclaren’s keys.

“No one in the hall,” whispered Clara. “Anyone could break in anywere anytime.”

“Sh,” whispered Hester. “What if she’s inside and says ‘Who’s there’?”

“So say you came to water the plants and I’ll ask her to shut off the drip.”

The key to one lock and then the key to the other turned smoothly and with only the tiniest click at the end. Hester took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. She knocked.

“There’s no answer,” whispered Clara impatiently. She pushed the door wide open. “The air conditioner isn’t even on. It’s legitimate. You want to water the plants.”

The door closed behind them. Clara said. “It smells stuffy, in here. Feels like a damp oven.”

They walked softly down the corridor. Empty utility room on the right, empty bathroom—

Clara looked in. “No drip. It’s in the master bedroom.”

At the end of the corridor there was the living room on the left, with its plants.

“They need water,” said Clara. “I’ll go into the master bath—” She opened the bedroom door and stopped. No motion. No sound. Her mouth opened wide.

Hester was at her side. The smell was stifling. “What—”

“Oh, my God,” said Clara, but without breath to scream.

The bed coverings were in total disarray. Mrs. Maclaren’s head lolled off the bed, her long brown hair brushing the floor, her neck bruised, one arm dangling on the floor, hand open, palm up.

“The police,” said Clara. “We’ve got to call the police.”

Hester, gasping, moved forward.

“You mustn’t touch anything,” said Clara.

The glint of brass in the open hand—

Hester had found her son’s missing button.