inexpensive, name-brand lock. It fit like Cinderella’s slipper, and I whispered a thank-you to Markham for not installing a dead bolt as I pushed the door open.
The place smelled stale, which was hardly surprising, since it had been shut since Markham’s death. The small vestibule opened into a larger center hall with a stairway to the second floor. The living room was on the right, the dining room on the left. I turned right, into a spacious room decorated in a style that Lily probably would have called “American Miscellany.” I liked it, though. I felt I could get comfortable in any seat in the room, which is at the top of my priority list. There were bookcases on either side of the white brick fireplace, and I thought about tackling them but decided to wait until I’d seen more of the house.
Behind the living room was what probably once had been a sun porch. Markham had turned it into an office. He hadn’t bothered to close it off from the living room, but then, why should he? He was the only person living in the house. It was a good working room, with plenty of natural light, even on this overcast day—windows on three sides, low bookshelves under them, a dark wooden desk that looked like it had been built to withstand a nuclear attack, and a personal computer on a small table next to the desk. The PC was a fairly new model, compatible with the one back at the brownstone. The desktop and the rest of the room looked neat and orderly, but maybe Cortland had done some straightening up when he’d been there. If so, his own office could use a little of the same effort.
I was about to move on in my tour when the doorbell chimed. My first impulse was not to answer it, then I thought I’d better at least have a peek at who might be calling on a dead man. Through the curtains on the living room windows, I saw a second car at the curb behind the Mercedes, and, thinking back, it was at that moment I decided on a course of action. I might have done things differently if Wolfe hadn’t been so damn surly about the whole Prescott business, but Wolfe’s Wolfe and I’m me, and I did get things to happen. You’ll have to be the judge of whether it was done the best way.
I went to the front door, pulled it open, and found myself facing an earnest-looking young man in a police uniform who looked like he was just learning to shave. “Yes, sir,” he said, touching the bill of his cap. “Patrolman Nevins, Prescott Police. We got a report someone was here, and we stopped by to check on it. Do you have official business in this house?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, giving him a friendly, open smile. I didn’t invite him in.
“Do you mind telling me what the business is?” he asked in a polite but firm voice. Young Patrolman Nevins had been trained by the book.
“It doesn’t concern the police,” I said, still smiling.
He looked uncertain, maybe because the book didn’t cover this, and before he could say anything, another cop, closer to my age, waddled around the corner of the house. He obviously had been checking in back. “What’s up, Charlie?” the newcomer asked Nevins.
“This gentleman says he has a reason to be here, but doesn’t want to tell what it is.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the older one. He lumbered up the stairs and stood next to his partner, facing me. His nameplate said Sergeant Amundsen. The insignia on his right arm revealed he was one of Prescott’s finest. “You a real-estate man?”
“No,” I said, keeping the smile on my face.
“A real talker, huh?” Amundsen hooked his thumbs in his belt and eyed me without affection. He was beefy, probably six-one and two-ten, with a ruddy face that wore a “don’t-mess-with-me” expression. “Let’s see some identification, please.”
I pulled out my wallet and handed Amundsen my driver’s and private investigator’s licenses. “A private cop, eh?” He scowled. “Okay, Mr. Goodwin, what’s the story? Don’t try to jerk us
The place smelled stale, which was hardly surprising, since it had been shut since Markham’s death. The small vestibule opened into a larger center hall with a stairway to the second floor. The living room was on the right, the dining room on the left. I turned right, into a spacious room decorated in a style that Lily probably would have called “American Miscellany.” I liked it, though. I felt I could get comfortable in any seat in the room, which is at the top of my priority list. There were bookcases on either side of the white brick fireplace, and I thought about tackling them but decided to wait until I’d seen more of the house.
Behind the living room was what probably once had been a sun porch. Markham had turned it into an office. He hadn’t bothered to close it off from the living room, but then, why should he? He was the only person living in the house. It was a good working room, with plenty of natural light, even on this overcast day—windows on three sides, low bookshelves under them, a dark wooden desk that looked like it had been built to withstand a nuclear attack, and a personal computer on a small table next to the desk. The PC was a fairly new model, compatible with the one back at the brownstone. The desktop and the rest of the room looked neat and orderly, but maybe Cortland had done some straightening up when he’d been there. If so, his own office could use a little of the same effort.
I was about to move on in my tour when the doorbell chimed. My first impulse was not to answer it, then I thought I’d better at least have a peek at who might be calling on a dead man. Through the curtains on the living room windows, I saw a second car at the curb behind the Mercedes, and, thinking back, it was at that moment I decided on a course of action. I might have done things differently if Wolfe hadn’t been so damn surly about the whole Prescott business, but Wolfe’s Wolfe and I’m me, and I did get things to happen. You’ll have to be the judge of whether it was done the best way.
I went to the front door, pulled it open, and found myself facing an earnest-looking young man in a police uniform who looked like he was just learning to shave. “Yes, sir,” he said, touching the bill of his cap. “Patrolman Nevins, Prescott Police. We got a report someone was here, and we stopped by to check on it. Do you have official business in this house?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, giving him a friendly, open smile. I didn’t invite him in.
“Do you mind telling me what the business is?” he asked in a polite but firm voice. Young Patrolman Nevins had been trained by the book.
“It doesn’t concern the police,” I said, still smiling.
He looked uncertain, maybe because the book didn’t cover this, and before he could say anything, another cop, closer to my age, waddled around the corner of the house. He obviously had been checking in back. “What’s up, Charlie?” the newcomer asked Nevins.
“This gentleman says he has a reason to be here, but doesn’t want to tell what it is.”
“Oh, yeah?” said the older one. He lumbered up the stairs and stood next to his partner, facing me. His nameplate said Sergeant Amundsen. The insignia on his right arm revealed he was one of Prescott’s finest. “You a real-estate man?”
“No,” I said, keeping the smile on my face.
“A real talker, huh?” Amundsen hooked his thumbs in his belt and eyed me without affection. He was beefy, probably six-one and two-ten, with a ruddy face that wore a “don’t-mess-with-me” expression. “Let’s see some identification, please.”
I pulled out my wallet and handed Amundsen my driver’s and private investigator’s licenses. “A private cop, eh?” He scowled. “Okay, Mr. Goodwin, what’s the story? Don’t try to jerk us
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