"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.
9
The knock on the door awakened him.
Fook had left at about a quarter to three, 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?"
"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 190, 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."