Edwin of the Iron Shoes

by Marcia Muller

  Could that possibly have been the purpose of the brick throwing. I wondered? Had the would-be burglar thought he could decoy me from the shop by attacking Junk Emporium? If so, he’d almost succeeded.

  And what had I seen in the street at the moment I brought my eyes level with the window sill? I had not really seen, so much as had an impression of, a short, stocky figure running down the sidewalk and merging with the shadows. It could have been the same figure I’d tangled with minutes before.

  My heart pounded as I returned to the settee and huddled in the afghan, longing for my warm, comfortable bed and the double lock and chain on my apartment door. But it was out of the question to go home now. If the intruder hadn’t gotten what he wanted, it was my business to stay and protect the shop. At least I could take encouragement from the fact that he had pushed me away rather than attacked me when I came after him.

  For the first time since the night before, when I’d seen the bloodstains and the chalk marks vividly outlining the tragedy that had befallen the little antique dealer, Joan’s murder became intimate and horrible to me, with Charlie’s Old Father Death returning to stalk my mind once more.

  I sat, cocooned, leaning against Clothilde for comfort as I waited for the morning light.

  10

  The light came, but slowly. I found I could doze off once my first attack of dread ended, and at full dawn I lapsed into a deep sleep that, while not long, refreshed me. Around nine o’clock, I woke to the sound of hammering in the street.

  I went to the window and looked out at a soft, drizzling rain. Across the way, Charlie was hard at work nailing plywood sections over the holes in the glass front of his shop. The rain fell on him, dampening his long gray mane.

  I sighed, depressed by the gloom, and went into the little bathroom at the back of the shop to tidy up. I smoothed the wrinkles out of my rumpled clothing as well as I could and tied my hair back so it wouldn’t get in the way while I continued my crawl through the dusty depths of the selling floor and workroom. Then I fished in my bag for one of the Hershey bars I always carried with me and had breakfast.

  The shop had soaked up some of the moisture from outside. I turned the heat on full blast, pushed up my sleeves, and with the inventory sheets in hand, began where I’d left off the night before. I was determined to get on with this task and test out a theory I’d formulated while I sat shivering in the dark.

  It seemed to me that the intruder could be one of two people: a real burglar who knew the owner was dead and had decided to help himself to the contents of the shop, or Joan Albritton’s murderer. And, if it was the murderer, he had returned for whatever he had left or neglected to take with him the night before. If I could discover what that something was, I might be able to identify the killer. I pursued the inventory furiously.

  About an hour later, I was creeping on my hands and knees under a gate-leg table, trying to look at a pewter tea service that for some inexplicable reason had been hidden there, when I heard the front door open and quick footsteps cross the shop.

  “Who’s there?” I called.

  The footsteps stopped. “Where are you?” a male voice asked.

  I started to get up, hit my head on the underside of the table, and said, “Damn it!” in a very loud voice. I must have been making an interesting impression on whoever was out there.

  He chuckled, and then a pair of shoes appeared next to the table. A hand reached under to help me out, and I took it, emerging dust-covered and red-faced. It was Oliver van Osten. I had forgotten about his promise to stop by and help me take inventory.

  Van Osten looked well scrubbed and tidy. I hastily rubbed my dirty hands on my pants, until it occurred to me what a slovenly thing that was to do. Van Osten didn’t seem to notice, though; he merely smiled and asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Pretty well, but there’s so much stuff here. Even knowing some of the antiques aren’t genuine, it’s still kind of overwhelming.”

  He nodded. “That’s where I can help you. Let’s sit down, and I’ll tell you a few things about antiques, to demystify them, so to speak.”

  I led him to the front of the room. Van Osten sat down next to Clothilde, patting the mannequin’s shoulder in a proprietary fashion. I perched on a high stool behind the counter.

  “How’s your murder investigation going?” Van Osten asked.

  “Better than the inventory,” I lied.

  “Any suspects?”

  “None that I can discuss right now.”

  Van Osten furrowed his brow in displeasure at that.

  “How well did you know Joan Albritton, Oliver?” I asked.

  The furrow deepened. “Not well. She was just a customer, although I must say she was better than most.”

  “How so?”

  “She knew something about antiques, about art.” He made a scornful gesture. “Most of the buyers, what do they know? I could pass my ‘antiques’ off as the real article, and they’d never see the difference.”

  “They’re that unaware of what they sell?”

  “You’d be surprised at their ignorance. In private life, some of them are collectors; I advise them on artworks to buy. They don’t care what it is, so long as it has an impressive price tag.” His face twisted into a sneer. “They have to ask me what to buy, and then they treat me as if I should come in through the service entrance! Take a look around, and you’ll find peasants in some pretty high places!”

  Van Osten was exhibiting what appeared to be the paranoia of the former small-town boy made to feel small again. I said, “You must know a great deal about art.”

  “Enough,” he said shortly. “I’ve studied under some of the great authorities. But let’s get back to the facts you’ll need for this inventory.”

  I sensed he realized he’d shown too much of himself to me. I nodded. “Okay. What can you tell me?”

  Van Osten relaxed, secure in his role as teacher. “Number one: a lot of the impressive labels or catchwords you hear applied to antiques are simply the dealer’s jargon, and their purpose is largely to keep prices up.”

  “How so?”

  Van Osten gestured at a shelf behind me. “Take a look at that urn up there. If Joan spotted a customer eying it, she’d probably strike up a conversation, call it a ‘distinguished aging receptacle,’ and make a sale. Now, you and I know it’s nothing more than an old pickle crock, but as an ‘aging receptacle,’ it’s got considerably more financial clout.”

  I got his point.

  “Dealers like to upgrade their wares with grandiose descriptions,” van Osten went on. “They’ll make statement like ‘It’s in the style of Louis the Fourteenth,’ but that doesn’t mean it’s ever been any closer to France than across the Bay Bridge. And when you get down to it, most of the stuff you’ll find on Salem Street is in the style of the old pickle crock, if it’s got any style at all.”

  I said, “You make it sound a very tricky business.”

  “Sure. It is.” He got up and went to the curio cabinet, which still stood open, and extracted a small oblong box. “What do you think this is?”

  “A pill box?”

  “Wrong! It’s a snuff box. They used to be all the rage. There’s a whole ritual to it. Tap the box three times, no more or no less, to settle the snuff. Open it, pinch just so …” He mimicked the procedure, taking some imaginary snuff.

  “Now, this box,” he said, extending it to me, “is made of wood, and it’s old enough but of rather humble American origins. I’m willing to bet you, though, that Joan Albritton could have convinced an unsophisticated buyer that this box could be ‘attributed to’ Napoleon’s imperial tobacconist. The statement would be true in a way, but Joan would have been the only one doing the attributing.”

  I could believe that, having seen her at work.

  “So you see,” van Osten concluded, “you really have nothing to be afraid of. Once I’ve pointed out the pieces I sold to Joan, the remainder will all fall into place.”

  �
��You make it sound so simple.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. I’ll also be glad to go over Joan’s records with you. They should indicate what values to assign to the genuine pieces.”

  I hesitated. Van Osten didn’t strike me as a man who would be helpful unless there was something in it for him. In spite of what he’d said the morning before, he wasn’t here because he’d always had a desire to be Ellery Queen.

  I said, “All right. When I find the records—if there even are any—we’ll go over them.” I got off the stool slowly. “Right now you can show me the things Joan bought from you, and I’ll tag them.”

  Three hours later we were almost done. Joan had bought all sorts of things through van Osten, from candlesticks to hall chairs, from miniatures to silver plate. He also told me the right names for many of the genuine pieces, so I only needed to match them with the record of the price Joan had paid. He would be hard-pressed however, van Osten said, to place a value on Clothilde, Edwin, or Bruno.

  “Joan was extremely attached to them for some reason.” He was standing in front of Edwin, the heavy-footed mannequin. “I think she half-believed they could hear her talking to them. I’ve often felt Joan would have made a great disciple of some pagan religion, with her tendency to imbue inanimate objects with life qualities.”

  He paused, reaching for the painting on Edwin’s wall. “And this obsession with giving him something to look at. I could swear Edwin was a substitute for that grandson of hers who died. She developed the Edwin mania at about that time.”

  “Is that one of your paintings?” I asked, gesturing at the Madonna in his hands.

  He glanced at it. “No. It’s probably locally done. There are a number of competent copy artists around town.”

  I took it from him and looked at it. “I have a friend who would probably know who did it. Maybe I’ll ask her to take a look at all the unidentified paintings here. I notice there are a few.”

  Van Osten frowned. “I’d give them a blanket value of five bucks apiece if I were you, and save your friend the trouble. In fact, I’ll give you five for that one right now. I have a crack in my bathroom wall that needs covering.”

  I laughed and said, “If I were allowed to conduct business, I’d probably take you up on it.” I hung the painting back on the wall and led him down the last aisle, making notes on my inventory sheets and attaching tags. The whole process took only fifteen minutes more.

  When we were done, van Osten put his coat on and got ready to leave, giving me his card in case I had further questions and reminding me to get in touch when I had located Joan’s records.

  I said I would, and we shook hands solemnly. Then I followed him to the door to say good-bye. Behind him, parked at the curb, was a black vehicle that practically shouted “unmarked police car.” And as van Osten walked off, Lt. Marcus got out and came toward me.

  11

  I stood in the doorway of the shop, watching Greg Marcus cross the sidewalk. His usual sarcastic expression was in place by the time he got to the door: the familiar mocking quirk of the mouth, one dark-blond eyebrow raised.

  “I see you’re hard at work,” he said. “Who’s your friend?” He gestured down the street after van Osten.

  “An antique dealer. He’s been giving me pointers.” I turned and went inside. Marcus followed.

  “How’re you getting along anyway?” he asked, draping his damp raincoat over the back of a chair.

  “As well as can be expected. Please don’t leave your coat there. It’s Early American, and the water will spoil the finish.” Much as I didn’t give a damn about the antiques per se, Marcus’s carelessness irritated me.

  He looked at me in exaggerated surprise, then picked up the coat, ostentatiously wiping a few drops of water from the chair. “Jesus, we wouldn’t want to damage one of these valuable antiques, would we?”

  “Not that particular one. It’s genuine, and there are very few other things of any real value in this shop.” I turned away from him toward the stool by the cash register.

  Marcus’s voice came over my shoulder. “Yes, papoose, I can see you’re learning a lot. It’s a pity it hasn’t improved your temper—or your appearance, for that matter. You look like you could use a bath.”

  I whirled around. “What’s this ‘papoose’ bit?”

  “That’s what they call little Indians, isn’t it? Or would you rather I called you ‘squaw’?”

  I was shaking with anger, but I kept my voice level. “You have no business calling me either. I don’t have to listen to your comments on my ancestry or on the way I look. I can imagine you wouldn’t look so great yourself if you’d spent the night on that couch.”

  He glanced at Clothilde’s settee, then sat down. Unlike van Osten, he gave the dressmaker’s form an uncomfortable look and edged away from her.

  “You’re right. I’d look like hell if I’d slept on this.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and stuck the match in a pewter bowl.

  I snatched the bowl out of his reach and, with a gesture that mimicked his wiping the chair, transferred the match to a utilitarian glass ashtray.

  Marcus watched me with narrowed eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I should have known that was valuable too, but I’m not the expert you are.”

  “It doesn’t take expertise to see it’s not an ashtray.” I went over and perched on the stool. When I looked at him again, Marcus was staring at me with a peculiar expression.

  “You spent the night here?” he asked. “In this room, where the body was found?”

  At least he had stopped baiting me, for the moment. “I was working late, and it seemed silly to go home.”

  “Jesus,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  His reaction almost made my panic and restless dreams worthwhile. “Well, the body was gone, wasn’t it? Besides, a couple of interesting things happened.”

  “Oh?” He leaned forward on the settee.

  “Someone broke in here early this morning. I chased him and we scuffled, but he got away. Right after that, someone smashed the front windows of Charlie Cornish’s shop.”

  “I noticed he had them boarded up.” Marcus looked thoughtful. “Did you get a good look at the person who broke in?”

  “No.”

  “How long between the break-in and the smashed windows?”

  “Maybe five minutes.”

  “See anyone then?”

  “I had an impression, size and shape.”

  “What kind of impression?”

  “Short to medium height. Stocky. Like the man who broke in here.”

  He snorted. “Like about a third of the men in this city.”

  “I didn’t say I could describe him. What’s important is he may have tried to decoy me away from the shop by breaking those windows.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s logical.”

  “Sounds more like a woman’s intuition than logic.”

  I shifted on the stool and started fiddling with my hair, as I always did when angered. My fingers tangled in the ribbon, and I jerked it out savagely, letting my hair fall to my shoulders. Why did Marcus feel he must oppose everything I said?

  Keeping my voice calm, I said, “I still think that’s what happened.”

  “So what do you think this person wanted?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out all morning. It was either something he left behind or something he forgot to take the night before. What, I don’t know.”

  “Oh?” The mocking eyebrow trick again. “So you think this individual was the murderer?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “This ‘he’ … ever consider it might have been a she? Women commit murder, too.”

  “Don’t I know!” I retorted beneath my breath, but Marcus caught it and gave me his pseudo-smile.

  Returning the smile, I asked disingenuously, “What about you? What have you done that’s interesting?”

  He glared at me and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray
. “The possible suspects you mentioned in your statement check out clean.”

  “The credit union people?”

  “Them, and the people with the free school—they’ve bought land elsewhere, so they’re out of the running. I agree with you about the law school and the Ingalls real-estate syndicate. That leaves us with the people here in the neighborhood.”

  “Wait a minute. Did your men talk with Mrs. Ingalls or the Hemphill Law School trustees?”

  He looked annoyed. “They will, if they haven’t already, but it’s strictly routine. There’s no reason to suspect any of them, and I’d hardly want to bother such people over this murder.”

  I reflected his annoyance back at him. “Why not? Are they so much better than Joan Albritton? Can’t you take a few minutes of their precious time to try to find out who killed her?”

  “Now, Sharon,” he said in a patronizing tone, “I agreed with your opinion. I’ve only so much time to waste on false leads, and I prefer to concentrate here, in the neighborhood.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned ‘the neighborhood.’ Is it a euphemism for someone you suspect?”

  “Could be. I hoped you’d cooperate. Are you going to be obstructive now?”

  I got down from the stool and began pacing up and down behind the counter.

  Finally I said, “I don’t understand you. Is there some pressure from higher up that makes you reluctant to interrogate people in this city’s so-called power structure? Or is it that you’ve got one idea in your head, and you’re closing your eyes to all other possibilities?”

  As soon as I said it, I wished I’d phrased it more tactfully. Marcus went rigid, and for a moment he didn’t speak. Then he leaned forward and said in a hard voice, “Watch it, Ms. McCone. You’re here only because I say so, you know.”