mischievously, but only Flora Baumbach smiled back.
The policeman and the fire inspector visiting the scene agreed that it was nothing more than a gas explosion. Good thing the sprinkler system worked or Mr. Hoo might have had a good fire.
“What kind of a fire is a good fire,” Hoo wanted to know.
“And what about the burglaries?” Grace Wexler asked.
“I’m with the bomb squad,” the policeman explained. “You’ll have to call the robbery detail for that.”
“And what about the coffee shop accident?” Theo asked.
“Also a gas explosion.”
Jake Wexler asked about the odds of having two explosions in two days in the same building.
“Nothing unusual,” the fireman replied, “especially in weather like this, no ventilation, snow packed over the ducts.” He instructed the tenants to air out their kitchens before lighting ovens.
Mrs. Wexler turned up the heat in her apartment and kept the windows open for the next three days. She did not want anything blowing up during Angela’s party.
But the Wexler apartment was exactly where the bomber planned to set the next bomb.
14
PAIRS REPAIRED
THE SNOWPLOWS PLOWED and a warm sun finished the job of freeing the tenants of Sunset Towers (and the figure in the Westing house) from their wintry prisons.
Angela, disguised in her mother’s old beaver coat and hat and in Turtle’s red boots, was the first one out. Following Sydelle’s instructions she hastily searched under the hood of every car in the parking lot. Nothing was there (nothing, that is, that didn’t seem to belong to an automobile engine). So much for Good gracious from hood space.
Next came Flora Baumbach. Behind her a bootless Turtle tiptoed through puddles. Miracle of miracles: the rusty and battered Chevy started, but the dressmaker’s luck went downhill from there. First, the hood of her car flew up in the middle of traffic. Then, after two hours of watching mysterious symbols move across the lighted panel high on the wall of the broker’s office, her eyes began to cross. After three hours the grin faded from her face. “I’m getting dizzy,” she said, shifting her position on the hard wooden folding chair, “and worse yet, I think I’ve got a splinter in my fanny.”
“Look, there goes one of our stocks,” Turtle replied.
Flora Baumbach caught a glimpse of SEA 5$8½ as it was about to magically disappear off the left edge of the moving screen. “Oh my, I’ve forgotten what that means.”
Turtle sighed. “It means five hundred shares of SEA was traded at $8.50 a share.”
“What did we pay?”
“Never mind, just write down the prices of our stocks as they cross the tape like I’m doing. Once school opens it’s all up to you.” Turtle did not tell her partner that they had bought two hundred shares of SEA at $15.25 a share. On that stock alone they had a loss of $1,350, not counting commissions. It took nerves of steel to play the stock market.
“The Mercedes is wiped clean and shiny like new,” the doorman boasted. His face reddened around old scars as he rejected a folded five-dollar bill. “No tips, Judge, please, not after all you’ve done for the wife and me.” The judge had given him the entire ten thousand dollars.
J. J. Ford pocketed the bill and, to make amends for her thoughtless gesture, asked the doorman about his family.
Sandy perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, adjusted his round wire-framed glasses, repaired at the bridge with adhesive tape, across his broken nose, and told about his children. “Two boys still in high school, one daughter married and expecting my third grandchild (her husband just lost his job so they all moved in with us), another daughter who works part-time as a typist (she plays the piano real good), and two sons who work in a brewery.”
“It must have been difficult supporting such a large family,” the judge said.
“Not so bad. I picked up odd jobs here and there after I got fired from
The policeman and the fire inspector visiting the scene agreed that it was nothing more than a gas explosion. Good thing the sprinkler system worked or Mr. Hoo might have had a good fire.
“What kind of a fire is a good fire,” Hoo wanted to know.
“And what about the burglaries?” Grace Wexler asked.
“I’m with the bomb squad,” the policeman explained. “You’ll have to call the robbery detail for that.”
“And what about the coffee shop accident?” Theo asked.
“Also a gas explosion.”
Jake Wexler asked about the odds of having two explosions in two days in the same building.
“Nothing unusual,” the fireman replied, “especially in weather like this, no ventilation, snow packed over the ducts.” He instructed the tenants to air out their kitchens before lighting ovens.
Mrs. Wexler turned up the heat in her apartment and kept the windows open for the next three days. She did not want anything blowing up during Angela’s party.
But the Wexler apartment was exactly where the bomber planned to set the next bomb.
14
PAIRS REPAIRED
THE SNOWPLOWS PLOWED and a warm sun finished the job of freeing the tenants of Sunset Towers (and the figure in the Westing house) from their wintry prisons.
Angela, disguised in her mother’s old beaver coat and hat and in Turtle’s red boots, was the first one out. Following Sydelle’s instructions she hastily searched under the hood of every car in the parking lot. Nothing was there (nothing, that is, that didn’t seem to belong to an automobile engine). So much for Good gracious from hood space.
Next came Flora Baumbach. Behind her a bootless Turtle tiptoed through puddles. Miracle of miracles: the rusty and battered Chevy started, but the dressmaker’s luck went downhill from there. First, the hood of her car flew up in the middle of traffic. Then, after two hours of watching mysterious symbols move across the lighted panel high on the wall of the broker’s office, her eyes began to cross. After three hours the grin faded from her face. “I’m getting dizzy,” she said, shifting her position on the hard wooden folding chair, “and worse yet, I think I’ve got a splinter in my fanny.”
“Look, there goes one of our stocks,” Turtle replied.
Flora Baumbach caught a glimpse of SEA 5$8½ as it was about to magically disappear off the left edge of the moving screen. “Oh my, I’ve forgotten what that means.”
Turtle sighed. “It means five hundred shares of SEA was traded at $8.50 a share.”
“What did we pay?”
“Never mind, just write down the prices of our stocks as they cross the tape like I’m doing. Once school opens it’s all up to you.” Turtle did not tell her partner that they had bought two hundred shares of SEA at $15.25 a share. On that stock alone they had a loss of $1,350, not counting commissions. It took nerves of steel to play the stock market.
“The Mercedes is wiped clean and shiny like new,” the doorman boasted. His face reddened around old scars as he rejected a folded five-dollar bill. “No tips, Judge, please, not after all you’ve done for the wife and me.” The judge had given him the entire ten thousand dollars.
J. J. Ford pocketed the bill and, to make amends for her thoughtless gesture, asked the doorman about his family.
Sandy perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair, adjusted his round wire-framed glasses, repaired at the bridge with adhesive tape, across his broken nose, and told about his children. “Two boys still in high school, one daughter married and expecting my third grandchild (her husband just lost his job so they all moved in with us), another daughter who works part-time as a typist (she plays the piano real good), and two sons who work in a brewery.”
“It must have been difficult supporting such a large family,” the judge said.
“Not so bad. I picked up odd jobs here and there after I got fired from
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