The basement window was locked tight. As I straightened up, I heard something jangling. Delray had pulled out what looked like a ring of loose wires.
‘A cop with lock picks?’
He didn’t answer as he bent to the lock. Almost instantly, the tumblers let go with a short, loud click. He pushed open the door. For a moment, we stayed outside, listening for any sounds from within. But all I could hear was my heart.
He turned and pressed the lock picks into my hand.
‘I don’t want these,’ I whispered.
‘They go in your pocket. If we’re caught, I can help us more if I don’t have them.’
It wasn’t a good place for spirited debate. My fingers clenched the slender metal picks and jammed them in my pocket.
I stepped inside.
THIRTY-NINE
The darkness of the house was cleaved, front to back, by the soft reds, greens and yellows spilling into the other end of the long central hallway. The Tiffany lamp I’d seen behind the sheer curtains in the front window was the only light burning on the first floor.
I stopped just inside the back door, straining for the sound of a muffled footfall or the sharp intake of a breath. All that came back was the blood beating in my ears, and the smells of a hundred years of cigar smoke, grilled meat, whiskey. And secrets.
Delray pressed up close behind me. ‘Basement,’ he whispered. I felt rather than saw him pat his inside jacket pocket. He’d come armed.
The door was against my left shoulder. I stepped away.
He tapped my right hand with slim, cool metal. I closed my fingers around a small flashlight. Lock picks, a gun, and now a flashlight – Delray had come a real scout, fully prepared.
‘Keep it low,’ he whispered, meaning I should descend into the basement first.
‘But you’re armed,’ I whispered back. Surely proper police protocol demanded that the cop go first.
‘Best I stay up here, in case someone comes,’ he said low, stepping back.
That did nothing to calm the blood rushing loud in my ears, but I supposed it made sense. Any threat was likely to come from someone on the first or upper floors.
I turned the knob, swung open the door. Cool, dank air rushed out as though from a long-sealed crypt. I reached inside, feeling for a rail. There was only cold plaster.
Steadying myself with my left arm against the wall, and holding the flashlight with my right, I stepped down onto the stairs. A slightly lighter gray haze lay like a thin fog on the basement floor, streetlight washing in through a basement window. Ten steps down, I got to the concrete floor. Enough light came in from the two side windows to show spindly shapes against the walls, but the center of the basement was pure darkness, as though something hulking was resting there, sucking up the light.
I stayed at the base of the stairs and switched on the flashlight, aimed at the floor. The black mass in the center was an enormous old boiler, hot water pipes extending from it like tentacles from a giant squid. The shapes along the wall were a shovel, a rake, and an old-fashioned, reel-type push lawnmower, manufactured in a time when engines to cut grass had not yet been imagined.
I’d seen enough; there was nothing alarming there. I hurried softly back up the stairs, pressed the flashlight into Delray’s hand. He could lead into the next dark place. He had the gun.
I followed close behind as he moved to the open door to the kitchen, just ahead on the right. An old white porcelain sink counter, tinged a ghostly blue from the moonlight coming through the back window, took up most of one wall; on another was an ancient, chipped eight-burner gas stove. Dented, dulled pots hung like steel moons from an overhead rack. The only modern presence in the cramped room, a small refrigerator, was jammed into a corner, an interloper in a kitchen outfitted when ice was kept in a box.
By now my ears had acclimated to the old house’s rattling and pulsing every time a car or, even louder, a motorcycle passed by. My eyes, too, were now comfortable in the gloom. I made out ornate, curved shapes of electric light sconces, dark now, set high above the deep grooves in old wainscot paneling along the hall.
Delray stopped a few steps down the hall. A sliver of light ran up the wall on the left. It came from the center seam of a pair of closed pocket doors. I pressed my ear against one of them, but heard nothing above the noises from outside.
‘Open the door,’ he whispered. His hand moved to the inside of his jacket.
I placed my fingertips at the seam and, when he nodded, slid open the rightmost door.
It was a dining room, lit stronger by the same reds, yellows and greens that were spilling into the hall. Another set of pocket doors had been opened directly into the tiny front parlor. The colored glass Tiffany lamp I’d seen from across the street sat behind the sheer curtains on a mahogany claw-footed table, plugged to a timer. Two red plush settees were set on either side of it.
‘Stay away from those parlor doors,’ Delray said softly, close to my ear. ‘We don’t want to make shadows that can be seen through the front window.’
In contrast to the small parlor, the dining room was huge, and almost completely taken up by a long oak table surrounded by more than two-dozen high-backed oak chairs. The whole first floor was meant for dining and drinking.
Delray moved around me, and I followed him into the room.
‘Let’s have a look at a couple of those,’ he whispered, pointing up. Two long rows of tankards hung from rails on the paneling.
It seemed an odd thing to be interested in, but I pulled two off their pegs and held them in the glow coming from the parlor. The mugs were heavy pewter, dented, and old. Each was etched with a different number: I was holding numbers seven and eight. I started to hand one to him. He shook his head. ‘How many do you count?’
I set the two mugs on the table and looked up to count the pegs. ‘Thirty, all told.’
‘Same number as the chairs,’ he said softly.
‘Thirty members,’ I whispered.
He motioned for me to back out into the hall. I started to reach for the two mugs I’d left on the table.
‘Go on out. I’ll put them back,’ he said. He came out a few seconds later.
I crossed the hall, opened a door to a tiny washroom that contained a toilet and a porcelain pedestal sink. A cloakroom was cut in next to it, partially under the stairs. There was no rod, no hangers, just rows of brass hooks on three walls, set high and far enough apart for the sorts of broad coats that would have been worn in 1896.
I started to cross the hall, to take another peek into the parlor, but Delray grabbed my upper arm. ‘Remember the front window,’ he whispered.
I stepped back, pointed to the staircase. He nodded. I started up first.
Pressing myself against the wall to minimize any creaking, I climbed four steps, stopped, and held my breath to listen. I heard only the sounds of automobiles and motorcycles. Almost certainly, we were alone in the old house. Delray came up behind me and we continued up to the second floor.
A blush of moonlight backlit the gauzy fabric at the rear window, but most of the hall was in absolute darkness. The smell of cigar smoke, mingled with must and old wood, was strong, like below. The air moved next to me as Delray reached into his pocket. A second later the pencil beam of his flashlight broke the darkness at the floor.
It was enough to see the five doors that lined the old corridor. Each was partially open – for ventilation, I supposed.
Motioning me to stay behind him, Delray moved to the closest door. Easing it open with his shoulder, he stepped in quickly and stabbed low at the darkness with his pencil beam. It was the size of a small bedroom, no doubt once shared with prostitutes. Now it was furnished for relaxed conversation, with two pairings of red leather wing chairs, each with its own smoking table and glass ash tray, facing each other. There was no closet for someone to hide in. The graystone was built when clothes were kept in armoires.