Vanish in an Instant

9

Meecham didn’t go directly to the jail. The place he wanted to see first was on his way. He found it finally, after driving past twice — a small store with a single window, wedged inconspicuously between a bowling alley and a cigar shop.

A sign above the door was lettered in green and white: Doug Devine, Prop. There was no other identification, and none was needed. The window was piled to the ceiling with the scraps and leavings, the hopes and futilities, the desires and fears and evils, of human beings. Wedding rings and automatics, rosaries and hunting knives, worn shoes and violins; and, at the back of the window, the bland, ageless face of a grandfather clock. The clock was running, and on time: 10:35.

Inside the store a middle-aged man was sitting on a wicker bench examining a shotgun. The gun was old and grimy. About four or five inches of the barrel had been sawed off, and the rest of it was mended with black friction tape. It was a desperate weapon, as likely to explode when the trigger was pulled as to discharge its shot. Meecham wondered what desperate man had bought and sold it, and what desperate man would buy it and add another chapter to its dark allusive history.

Devine looked up from his task. He was a black Irishman with coarse curly hair and eyes bright as beetles. “It works,” he said briefly. “I tried it.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. But you never know what you’re going to hit. Aim it at your wife and you end up shooting the neighbor’s pet goldfish.”

“That could be good.”

“Oh, sure. No argument about that. No law against shooting up goldfish.” He got up and put the shotgun carefully on the wicker bench. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Maybe.”

“Buying or selling?”

“Buying.”

“I figure you for an insurance investigator,” Devine said. “Right or wrong?”

“Wrong.”

“I bet I was close.”

“Pretty close.”

“I’m always close. Practically the only thing I know in this whole cockeyed world is people and I can’t make a nickel out of it. Give me an idea what you’re interested in. You want to start music lessons, we got a nice clarinet.”

“No, thanks. What I...”

“Fellow that sold it to me said it once belonged to Benny Goodman. Funny thing, how a lot of people dream up the same old stuff and think it’s new. There’s not a clarinet in any pawnshop east of Frisco that ain’t been played by Goodman or Artie Shaw. We got some nice bargains in jewelry.”

“I was thinking of a picture frame.”

“Just the frame?”

“Yes.”

“We got some first-class framed oil paintings, some genuine Manderheim’s.”

“I never heard of Manderheim.”

“I never did either, but you’d be surprised how many I’ve sold.” He pointed to a picture of a vase of roses and ivy that was propped against the legs of an up-ended chair. “See that, over there. If I told my customers that somebody’s Aunt Agnes painted it on her kitchen table, I couldn’t give it away. But Manderheim — well, he’s different, he’s strictly class. Romantic, even. You want to know why he doesn’t sign his pictures? Well, he’s run away with another man’s wife, see, and he doesn’t want to be recognized because the husband is out gunning for him. Yes, sir, people will believe anything if it’s preposterous enough.” He added, with a touch of gloom, “Funny thing is, I damn near believe in Manderheim myself.”

So did Meecham. “Maybe some other time I’ll take a Manderheim,” he said. “Right now all I want is a frame. My girlfriend had her picture taken last week. By a curious coincidence her name’s Manderheim too.”

Devine didn’t smile. “You want a silver frame?”

“Yes.”

“About eight by ten?”

“About that.”

Devine was silent a moment, rubbing the side of his chin with his hand. His skin was like sandpaper. “I’m in a peculiar business, mister, and I get peculiar people in here asking for peculiar things. Now there’s nothing special about a silver picture frame by itself. I buy one occasionally, sell one occasionally. What’s peculiar is that this morning, inside of one little hour, I get three calls for a silver frame. You’re the third. The second was a cop, and the first was a lady.”

“Who was she?”

“State your business, mister.”

Meecham took one of his professional cards from his wallet.

Devine accepted the card, read it with a grunt and dropped it on the floor. “I told the cop, and I’m telling you. I didn’t know her from Adam.”

“You said people are your specialty. You must have noticed her.”

“Sure, sure. I figured her for a nurse, or maybe a schoolteacher. She was ordinary, not bad-looking not good-looking, not well-dressed, not poorly dressed. Forty, or there-abouts, thin, had a sharp nose. Looked like she’d been crying or had a bad cold. She was standing outside when I opened up the store at nine. She said she wanted a few odds and ends for her house, and would I mind if she looked around. She went through the whole place very methodically, like someone who’s used to looking for things. It took her about twenty minutes to find what she wanted: the silver frame, a table radio, and an onyx pen and pencil set. $48.50 for the works. A steal.”

“Have you seen the papers this morning?”

“I’ve got four kids,” Devine said. “When you got four kids you don’t read the paper until night when they’re all in bed. Why?”

Meecham ignored the question. “I suppose you remember who sold you the articles that this woman bought.”

“Certainly. I both remember and I got it written down on my books. He’s a young man I’ve done business with before. Sometimes he pawns a couple things, sometimes sells them outright like yesterday. His name’s Desmond. Duane Desmond.” He studied Meecham’s face for a moment. “That’s a phony, eh? I kind of thought it might be. What’s his real tag?”

“Earl Loftus.”

“Why all the sudden interest in him? He dead or something?”

“He’s in jail.”

“Is that a fact?” Devine showed no surprise. “Well, like they say, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Who was the lady who bought the stuff he sold me?”

“I thought you might have recognized her,” Meecham said with a wry little smile. “It was Manderheim’s mistress.”

Devine blushed like a girl. “Oh, can it now. What the hell.” He followed Meecham to the door. “The stuff I got from Desmond — Loftus, I mean — it wasn’t hot?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief. I wonder why the woman bought it all back again?”

“Maybe to return it to him.” Maybe to remember him by, he added silently. He thought of the way she had sat in Loftus’ room, her head buried in her hands, in silent grief. He said, “There was no picture in the frame?”

“Sure there was. A nice-looking woman, sixty or thereabouts, white hair. I figured at first it must be Loftus’ mother. I asked him didn’t he want to take the picture out and keep it, and he said no. So I guess it wasn’t his mother.”

“I think it was.”

“Well, now that’s strange, eh? You’d think a guy would keep a picture of his own mother.”

It was strange. Particularly strange in the case of Loftus, the devoted son. “What did you do with it?”

“Threw it away. It was no pin-up, what else would I do?”

“Maybe you could remember where you threw it.”

“Sure I could remember, for all the good it will do. I put it in the furnace and burned it along with the other rubbish. It was just an ordinary picture, ordinary woman. How was I to know anybody’d want it? What do you want it for, anyway?”

“I don’t. I’m just curious. I’d like to know why Loftus didn’t keep it.”

“Maybe he was sore at her. I get sore at my old lady.”

“You may be right.” Meecham opened the door. After the mustiness of the shop the winter wind felt fresh and clean. “Thanks for the information.”

“Welcome. Come in again.”

“I will.” Meecham stepped out into the street and stood for a moment in front of the cluttered window, buttoning his topcoat. When he looked back into the store, he saw that Devine had returned to the wicker bench and was sitting with the ancient shotgun across his knees.