windows.”
“Oh. I guess I just never thought about the rest of the collection.”
“Let’s hope the thieves haven’t thought about it either,” Nora said drily. “Do you want to meet Dr. Browning here tomorrow?”
I considered. “No. I prefer to talk to people in their natural habitats when I can. It gives me a better sense of them.”
“Then get him before he goes in to school. If he gets buried in his research he won’t even answer the phone.”
So I called at eight. At first the soft, hesitant voice on theother end of the phone seemed unsure of who I was. Then he placed me. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Nora’s detective. Yes, of course, come whenever you like. I’m anxious to help. When should I expect you?”
I suggested nine and he agreed. At eight-thirty I met Bill and we took the IRT to the Upper West Side. We did some doubling back and we did some looking over our shoulders and we both decided we weren’t being followed.
Which was too bad; because if someone isn’t following you, you can’t find out who he is.
The day uptown, like the day downtown, was bright and blue and sunny. We could see the bare trees on the Jersey side of the river through the bare trees in Riverside Park as we walked down the block. Dr. Browning’s address turned out to be one of those old brown brick apartment buildings on a side street off West End. There was fancy tan trim around some of the windows and in a line up by the roof. It looked like stone to me, but Bill said it was terra cotta.
I told the doorman who we were, and he told the handset of an ancient intercom system, and then he hung it up and told us to go up to eight.
The elevator wheezed and creaked and finally got us there. At the end of a hallway whose beige carpet was thinning down the middle we found Dr. Browning’s apartment door and knocked.
Immediately, the door opened a wedge. The thin, spectacled face of Dr. Mead Browning peered out. His eyes fell on Bill first, and he looked him over with a puzzled frown.
“Good morning, Dr. Browning.” I smiled. “This is Bill Smith. He’s working on this case with me. We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right?”
Dr. Browning’s glance shifted to me and his face cleared. I had the funny feeling that he not only hadn’t seen me, he hadn’t remembered I was on my way up. He smiled shyly. “Miss Chin. Yes, please, come in. I was just trying to remember whether I’d met this gentleman. I lose track, you know.”
The shy smile remained on his face and he remainedstanding in the doorway. Bill and I stood dopily in the hall for a few more awkward moments. Then Dr. Browning flushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Come in, come in.”
This time he moved aside, and I stepped quickly into the vestibule, Bill right behind me. We didn’t want to lose our chance.
As Dr. Browning closed and locked the door behind us I took a look around. The living room was straight ahead, the kitchen to the right. The bedroom and bath, I assumed, were off to the left, through a small archway. I was intimidated at the thought of going that way, because it seemed to me just getting to a living room chair was going to be challenge enough.
Or finding one. Dusty piles of newspapers, magazines, and books rose lumpily in Dr. Browning’s dim living room like snowbanks from a paper blizzard. Dark curtains, possibly blue once, hung half-opened around two grimy windows that might have a view of the river, if you could see through them. My nose wrinkled with the smell of must and mold; I unzipped my jacket, uncomfortable in the close, warm air. Bookcases, books stacked haphazardly, surrounded what was probably a writing desk; across the room, an upright piano held papers and more books. A squat brass vase dropped petals from a bunch of ancient dried flowers onto a graying cloth on a shelf. A hard wooden chair was pulled up to the desk; the other chairs, three of them, were snowed under.
Only one thing in the room seemed to
“Oh. I guess I just never thought about the rest of the collection.”
“Let’s hope the thieves haven’t thought about it either,” Nora said drily. “Do you want to meet Dr. Browning here tomorrow?”
I considered. “No. I prefer to talk to people in their natural habitats when I can. It gives me a better sense of them.”
“Then get him before he goes in to school. If he gets buried in his research he won’t even answer the phone.”
So I called at eight. At first the soft, hesitant voice on theother end of the phone seemed unsure of who I was. Then he placed me. “Oh, I’m so sorry! Nora’s detective. Yes, of course, come whenever you like. I’m anxious to help. When should I expect you?”
I suggested nine and he agreed. At eight-thirty I met Bill and we took the IRT to the Upper West Side. We did some doubling back and we did some looking over our shoulders and we both decided we weren’t being followed.
Which was too bad; because if someone isn’t following you, you can’t find out who he is.
The day uptown, like the day downtown, was bright and blue and sunny. We could see the bare trees on the Jersey side of the river through the bare trees in Riverside Park as we walked down the block. Dr. Browning’s address turned out to be one of those old brown brick apartment buildings on a side street off West End. There was fancy tan trim around some of the windows and in a line up by the roof. It looked like stone to me, but Bill said it was terra cotta.
I told the doorman who we were, and he told the handset of an ancient intercom system, and then he hung it up and told us to go up to eight.
The elevator wheezed and creaked and finally got us there. At the end of a hallway whose beige carpet was thinning down the middle we found Dr. Browning’s apartment door and knocked.
Immediately, the door opened a wedge. The thin, spectacled face of Dr. Mead Browning peered out. His eyes fell on Bill first, and he looked him over with a puzzled frown.
“Good morning, Dr. Browning.” I smiled. “This is Bill Smith. He’s working on this case with me. We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right?”
Dr. Browning’s glance shifted to me and his face cleared. I had the funny feeling that he not only hadn’t seen me, he hadn’t remembered I was on my way up. He smiled shyly. “Miss Chin. Yes, please, come in. I was just trying to remember whether I’d met this gentleman. I lose track, you know.”
The shy smile remained on his face and he remainedstanding in the doorway. Bill and I stood dopily in the hall for a few more awkward moments. Then Dr. Browning flushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Come in, come in.”
This time he moved aside, and I stepped quickly into the vestibule, Bill right behind me. We didn’t want to lose our chance.
As Dr. Browning closed and locked the door behind us I took a look around. The living room was straight ahead, the kitchen to the right. The bedroom and bath, I assumed, were off to the left, through a small archway. I was intimidated at the thought of going that way, because it seemed to me just getting to a living room chair was going to be challenge enough.
Or finding one. Dusty piles of newspapers, magazines, and books rose lumpily in Dr. Browning’s dim living room like snowbanks from a paper blizzard. Dark curtains, possibly blue once, hung half-opened around two grimy windows that might have a view of the river, if you could see through them. My nose wrinkled with the smell of must and mold; I unzipped my jacket, uncomfortable in the close, warm air. Bookcases, books stacked haphazardly, surrounded what was probably a writing desk; across the room, an upright piano held papers and more books. A squat brass vase dropped petals from a bunch of ancient dried flowers onto a graying cloth on a shelf. A hard wooden chair was pulled up to the desk; the other chairs, three of them, were snowed under.
Only one thing in the room seemed to
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