"Are you hungry?" she asked. "I think I'll find us something to eat." When she returned with crackers and caviar and smoked salmon, he said, "You were going to tell me about Andy Glanz. What kind of man was he? How did the junkers feel about him?" The Scotch had relaxed her. She put her head back, gazed at the ceiling and collected her thoughts, her posture and trousered legs jarringly out of tune with the prim eighteenth century room." "Andy did a great deal for Junktown," she began, "because of his scholarly approach to antiques. He gave talks to women's clubs. He convinced the museum curators and the serious collectors to venture into Zwinger Street." "Could I call him the major-domo of Junktown?" "I'd avoid saying that, if I were you. C. C. Cobb considers himself the neighborhood leader. He opened the first shop and promoted the idea of Junktown." "How would you describe Andy as to character?" "Honest — scrupulously honest! Most of us have a little larceny in our hearts, but not Andy! And he had a great sense of responsibility. I saw him make a citizen's arrest one night. We were driving past an abandoned house in the reclamation area, and we saw a light inside. Andy went in and caught a man stripping the plumbing fixtures." "That's illegal, I assume." "Condemned houses are city property. Yes, it's technically illegal. Anyone else would have looked the other way, but Andy was never afraid to get involved." Qwilleran shifted his position on the stiff sofa. "Did the other dealers share your admiration for Andy's integrity?" "Yes-s-s… and no," Mary said. "There's always jealousy among dealers, even though they appear to be the best of friends." "Did Andy have any other friends I could interview?" "There's Mrs. McGuffey. She's a retired schoolteacher, and Andy helped her start her antique shop. He was magnanimous in many ways." "Where would I find the lady?" "At The Piggin, Noggin and Firkin in the next block." "Old Andy get along with Cobb?" She drew a deep breath. "Andy was a diplomat. He knew how to handle C.C." "Mrs. Cobb was evidently very fond of Andy." "All women adored him. Men were not so enthusiastic, perhaps. It usually happens that way, doesn't it?" "How about Ben Nicholas? Did they hit it off?" "Their relations were amicable, although Andy thought Ben spent too much time at The Lion's Tail." "Is Ben a heavy drinker?" "He likes his brandy, but he never gets out of line. He used to bean actor. Every city has one antique dealer who used to be on the stage and one who makes it a point to be obnoxious." "What do you know about the blond fellow on crutches?" "Russell Patch used to work for Andy, and they were great friends. Then suddenly they parted company, and Russ opened his own shop. I'm not sure what caused the rift." "But you were Andy's closest friend?" Qwilleran asked with a searching look.
Abruptly Mary Duckworth stood up and wandered around the room hunting for her cigarette holder. She found it and sat on the sofa and let Qwilleran offer her a light. After one deep inhalation she laid the cigarette down and curled up as if in pain, hugging her knees. "I miss Andy so much," she whispered.
Qwilleran had a desire to reach out and comfort her, but he restrained himself. He said, "You've had a shock, and you've been living with your grief. You shouldn't bottle it up. Why don't you tell me about it? I mean, everything that happened on that night. It might do you some good." The warmth of his tone brought a wetness to her dark eyes. After a while she said, "The terrible thing is that we quarreled on our last evening together. I was feeling peevish. Andy had… done something… that irritated me. He was trying to make amends, but I kept goading him during dinner." "Where did you have dinner?" "Here. I made beef Bordelaise, and it was a failure. The beef was tough, and we had this personal argument, and at nine o'clock he went back to his shop. He said someone was coming to look at a light fixture. Some woman from the suburbs was bringing her husband to look at a chandelier." "Did he say he would return?" "No. He was rather cool when he left. But after he'd gone, I felt miserable, and I decided to go to his shop and apologize. That's when I found him — " "Was his shop open?" "The back door was unlocked. I went in the back way — from the alley. Don't ask me to describe what I saw!" "What did you do?" "I don't remember. Iris says I ran to the mansion, and C.C. called the police. She says she brought me home and put me to bed. I don't remember." Intent on their conversation, neither of them heard the low growl in the kitchen-at first no more than a rattle in the dog's throat.
"I shouldn't be telling you this," Mary said.
"It's good to get it off your mind." "You won't mention it, will you?" "I won't mention it." Mary sighed deeply and was quiet, while Qwilleran smoked his pipe and admired her large dark-rimmed eyes.
They had mellowed during the evening, and now they were beautiful.
"You were right," she said. "I feel better now. For weeks after it happened, I had a horrible dream, night after night. It was so vivid that I began to think it was true. I almost lost my mind! I thought — " It was then that the dog barked-in a voice full of alarm. "Something's wrong," Mary said, jumping to her feet, and her eyes widened to their unblinking stare.
"Let me go and see," Qwilleran said.
Hepplewhite was barking at the rear window.
"There's a police car at the end of the alley," the newsman said. "You stay here. I'll see what it's all about. Is there a rear exit?" He went down the narrow back stairs and out through a walled garden, but the gate to the alley was padlocked, and he had to return for a key.
By the time he reached the scene, the morgue wagon had arrived, and the revolving roof lights on the two police vehicles made blue flashes across the snow and the faces of a few onlookers and a figure lying on the ground.
Qwilleran stepped up to one of the officers and said, "I'm from the Daily Fluxion. What's happened here?" "Routine lush," said the man in uniform with a smirk. "Drank too much antifreeze." "Know who he is?" "Oh, sure. He's got a pocketful of credit cards and a diamond-studded platinum ill bracelet." Qwilleran moved closer as the body was loaded on a stretcher, and he saw the man's coat. He had seen that coat before.
Mary was waiting for him in the walled garden, and although she was warmly wrapped, she was shaking. "Wh — what was the matter?" "Just a drunk," he told her. "You'd better get indoors before you catch cold. You're shivering." They went upstairs, and Qwilleran prescribed hot drinks for both of them.
As Mary warmed her hands on her coffee cup, he studied her face. "You were telling me — just before the dog barked — about your recurrent dream." She shuddered. "It was a nightmare! I suppose I was feeling guilty because I had been unpleasant to Andy." "What did you dream?" "I dreamed… I kept dreaming that I had pushed Andy to his death on that finial!" Qwilleran paused before making his comment. "There may be an element of fact in your dream." "What do you mean?" "I have a hunch that Andy's death was not an accidental fall from a ladder." As he said it, he again felt the telltale prickling in his moustache.
Mary became defensive. "The police called it an accident." "Did they investigate? Did they come to see you? They must have inquired who found the body." She shook her head.
"Did they interview people in the neighborhood?" "It was not necessary. It was obviously a mishap. Where did you get the idea that it might have been… anything else?" "One of your talkative neighbors — this morning — " "Nonsense." "I assumed he must have some reason for calling it murder." "Just an irresponsible remark. Why would anyone say such a thing?" "I don't know." Then Qwilleran watched Mary's eyes grow wide as he added, "But by a strange coincidence, the man who told me is now on his way to the morgue." Whether it was that statement or the startling sound of the telephone bell, he could not tell, but Mary froze in her chair. It rang several times.