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Papa folded his arms and looked away, and Bumby studied his soup.

“You know, you two might want to think about going to the mainland for a while. And if I were you, I might leave during the daytime.”

The Sergeant tipped his hat and walked away.

I giggled as I watched them.

Bumby and Papa stared at the table after Sergeant Cohn left, then at each other.

“I’m still not convinced it ain’t you,” Papa said. “But I think it’s Jean-Paul more, and I think Sergeant Cohn’s covering for him. That’s what cops do for rich folk.”

“That was some strange stuff about Lester’s pop.”

“I don’t think old Lester’s got it in him, and what’s the motive? At least Ernie’s not around, God rest his soul, to talk about the Man’s ghost any more.”

“Poor Ern,” Bumby said. “He never hurt a soul.”

“He was a coward,” Papa said, because it made him feel better about his own cowardice, “but I suppose he was all right.” He looked to the side and shook his head. “Dammit, Ern,” he said softly.

“If you’re not the murderer, and I don’t think you are because someone fired that shot,” Bumby mused, “although I suppose you could be teaming up with someone. But if you’re not, then one of us is next, unless we leave or do something about it.”

“I ain’t leaving. I swore when I came here this was the last stop. I’ve been everywhere else, done everything else, and this is the end of the line for me.”

So maybe the fat fuck did have an ounce of courage.

Bumby said, “I say we take them one at a time. I don’t think it’s Lester either, but he likes to cast off the pier at dusk. I say we search his place tonight when he’s out, and see if we find anything. If we don’t, then we find a way to get into Jean-Paul’s place.”

Papa thought about if for a moment, then downed his whiskey. “I’m good with that.”

They waited in a bar down the street until they saw Lester pass by with his pole and tackle box, and an old cooler for the fish. When he disappeared at the end of the street, almost at the water, Papa and Bumby paid their tab and strolled nonchalantly down Whitehead until they passed the house. They scurried into the foliage and then crept along the high brick wall to their climbing spot.

Bumby flopped over the wall and into a pile of bushes, ripping his linen shirt in the process. Papa did the same, landing even more heavily. They both sat on the ground, grunting and panting.

“We can use the ladder to get back,” Bumby said.

“Say Bum, why’re you sticking around?”

“You heard Madame Gertrude.”

Papa’s jaw dropped. “What—you’re here to help the Man’s ghost?”

Bumby stood and brushed himself off. “Let’s go. Lester won’t be gone all night.”

They hurried across the grounds to the crumbling black wood-framed house in the corner, feeding off each other for courage.

The front door was unlocked.

“Told you he was a half-wit,” Papa muttered.

“Leaving a door unlocked within an enclosed estate doesn’t make someone a half-wit.”

“It does when someone just shot out a window.”

“Not if he was the one who did it.”

Papa turned the knob and the door creaked open. The inside looked similar to the outside: run-down and sad. The living room was tidy, but a thin layer of dust coated the cheap brown furniture, and the drapes and rug were frayed.

“Take a look at this,” Bumby said. He was looking at a row of black and white photos on a mantle, most of them of a man who looked like a taller, thinner version of Lester, only with a proud intelligence not present in poor Lester’s eyes. In some of the photos, Hemingway himself was in the background, and in one of them, he had an arm draped across Lester Senior’s shoulders.

“I’ll be damned,” Papa said, reaching for one of the photos. “These are worth more than the letter!”

Bumby knocked his hand away. “Don’t touch anything with a flat surface, you imbecile. And leave poor Lester’s things alone. This is all he has.”

They split up and searched the house, going room to room and trying to act as if they knew what they were doing. The rest of the house was as dusty and spare as the living room, with a few insipid relics from a youth that was as far away as the next galaxy.

When they finished they met again downstairs. “Old Lester’s a bit pathetic,” Papa said.

“Like we’re much better. I think it’s time to get out of here,” Bumby said. “We got what we came for.”

“How’s that?”

“There’s nothing here, and I’m not surprised. Lester’s just trying to get by the best he can.”

Papa snorted and walked over to the photos of Lester Senior with Hemingway. “I’m taking a memento.”

“I said don’t touch that! Sergeant Cohn’s already watching us. Who do you think he’s going to suspect when Lester reports a theft?”

Papa waved a hand and stumped back over to Bumby.

“That’s odd,” Bumby said. “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Walk the way you came again, and listen.”

Papa did, and when he was in the center of the room a dull creaking sound came from the floor. “So? It’s a creaky floorboard.”

“You’re really not very bright, are you? Take a look at the corners, where the rug ends.”

Papa did, and his eyebrows rose. “Cement floor.”

They each hurried to grab a corner of the rug, and peeled it back. In the center of the room, right under where Papa had been standing when they heard the creak, was a wooden trapdoor.

“I’ll be damned,” Papa breathed.

“It’s probably just an old cellar. But it’s worth a look.” Bumby pulled on the flat handle, and it didn’t budge. He glanced at Papa. “Why lock an old cellar under the rug?”

“I saw a bunch of spare keys in the bedroom. I’ll grab ‘em.”

Papa brought back a key ring full of rusty keys, and they went through almost the whole ring before finding one that fit. Bumby lifted the trap door, revealing a rickety staircase descending into darkness.

Neither had a flashlight, but halfway down the stairs Bumby reached out and pulled on a thin rope cord hanging from the basement ceiling. A sickly glow issued forth from a bulb a foot from his head. They continued down the stairs before they took a full look at the room, and when they did they both lurched back as if punched in the gut.

Which, I suppose, they had been.

Hemingway memorabilia was everywhere, most of it on bookshelves or behind glass cases, but some of it, like his old fishing pole and favorite garden rake, were just lying on the floor like overflow from a world-class museum. The bookshelves were packed with hard covers, paperbacks, proof copies, and even dog-eared notebooks full of handwritten notes with a tight, muscular slant to the script.

“These are signed first-editions, and oh my God,” Bumby said, his hand covering his mouth. “This is his handwriting. These are his notes.”

Papa moved to the glass cases. “Take a look at this stuff. It’s all labeled. Favorite drinking glass, pens, clothing, Pauline’s and the kid’s stuff—there’s even one of her bras, the sick bastard—a pair of boxing gloves, a rifle, cigars, a letter from Castro,” he started bouncing up and down and clapping Bumby on the back, “holy shit, Bumblepants, do you have any idea how much this stuff is worth?”

“My God my God my God,” Bumby said, then took a deep breath to steady himself.

“They’ve been lifting things from the house over the years,” Papa said in dawning comprehension, “and keeping them in this private shrine. But what kind of moron would do that? Why not sell them?”