The Dark Fantastic

by Stanley Ellin

  “Uh-huh,” said DeLong.

  “Anything about what kind of discharge he got?”

  DeLong looked at Gracella. She did some thinking and then shook her head. “But it had to be an all-right one.”

  “Why?” asked Milano.

  She ticked it off on her fingers. “Captain in the army. A lot of combat action. Medal for a special mission. I mean, what kind of discharge would he get? Anyhow, you go through these papers you will see we really did a job. And if anybody ever came through like a total Mister Clean, he is the one.”

  “Total,” said Milano.

  “You don’t want to believe that?”

  “Well,” said Milano, “I was once at a dinner for another total like that. Pillar of the community, model citizen, saint of the year. The only guest who didn’t show up was him, because he got caught by the cops grabbing some teen-age kid’s prick in the airport toilet on his way in.”

  “Happens,” said DeLong equably. He frowned at Milano. “You got something on this Kirwan we don’t know?”

  “Not that way. But look at it this way. That girl’s come up with cash money amounting to at least a thousand dollars so far, maybe more. Possibly she got it all in one bundle, but I don’t think so because her spending pattern is too even and regular. Which means most likely the money comes in installments. And Kirwan’s the one regular contact we know she has in private. Behind locked doors. And there’s nothing to say that Mister Clean isn’t a user, and that this kid isn’t the smartest kind of connection he could set up for himself.”

  “Makes some sense,” DeLong acknowledged. “Except where’s her connection at the other end? Who’s supplying her? I watched that girl making her moves. Nothing there. No fancy footwork, no hide-and-seek at all.”

  “Still, said MIlano, “you have to work with what makes sense. And wondering what Kirwan’s got going with that kid is the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Q.E.D.,” said Gracella. She raised her eyebrows at Milano. “Now what?”

  “From your angle, nothing. You two want the rest of the day off with pay, you’ve got it.”

  “All right,” said Gracella. “But how about something else? Remember? I did my thing, you saw how I did it, how about a little changeover from secretarial to investigations? Kind of a permanent changeover.”

  She was poised and ready, Milano saw, but for what? He said, “You told me you had a Master’s degree, didn’t you? In what?”

  “Education.”

  It would be. “Didn’t you ever think of teaching?”

  “I did teach, Mr. Milano sir. Two years in junior high. You want my opinion of New York City’s junior high schools in twenty-five words or less?”

  “I’m reading it between the lines,” Milano said. “All right, I’ll tell Mr. Watrous we’ve got a hidden talent in the office we can’t afford to waste. Won’t be tomorrow or next week though. You want to wait it out, fine.”

  Gracella opened her mouth, and Milano held up a hand. “That’s it,” he said.

  He made the trip to Witter Street in the Mercedes – the car providing built-in bona fides – and, alternate-side parking rules holding good only until eleven a.m., he found at eleven-ten that there was still a space left near the driveway of 407. But no one answered the doorbell of the Victorian 407. Timing was essential, too. Lorena would be passing here a little after three on her way home from school; she’d be ringing this same bell around three-thirty. So it had to be curtains down on any interface with Kirwan well before three.

  Bedridden? No, not completely if at all. Sleeping it off? Milano was meditating this when he was hailed from the sidewalk. “Hey, mister.”

  An elderly couple – white – the man behind a shopping cart, the woman vigorously gesturing. “Mister.”

  Milano joined them on the sidewalk. The woman, a withered crone in space shoes, said reprovingly, “He’s not home.”

  “Kirwan?”

  “He’s not home.” She narrowed her eyes. “You the inspector?”

  “No. Just here on business. I thought he’d be in.”

  “He’s next door.” She pointed at 409. “In the cellar. Fixing something. You’re not the inspector?”

  “Not me,” said Milano.

  The old man said sternly, “There was supposed to be an inspector a week ago.”

  “A month ago,” said the old woman. She thrust a knotty forefinger into Milano’s chest. “Mister, you’re gonna see the fine Mr. Kirwan, may he rot in hell, you do me a favor. Tell him it’s Friedman, he’ll know. Tell him the toilet still leaks and the vershtoonkeneh icebox still don’t make cold. You tell him that.”

  “If I find him,” said Milano.

  “In the cellar there,” the old man said. “Remember, it’s Friedman. He’ll know.”

  You’d have to be a fool to bet he wouldn’t, thought Milano.

  The way to 409’s cellar was down a few stone steps and through a dank tunnel which opened on a large courtyard below street level. The cellar door was steel-jacketed and double-locked, the cellar windows were all sealed shut with concrete block, and door, windows, and every inch of wall around the courtyard were so dizzyingly thick with graffiti there didn’t seem to be room for even one more drop of spray-can inspiration.

  There was company here. In a far corner, a half-dozen boys were squatting, kneeling, standing over a card game, posed for a photo of youth playing hookey from high school. They froze at the sight of this stranger, warily eying him from the distance. In proletarian contrast was a burly, grayhaired black man attending to a row of battered garbage containers ranged against the wall. The containers overflowed with garbage, it was sloppily underfoot all around them, and the man was shoveling the excess into one of those reinforced black plastic bags. A couple of filled bags were already ranged against the wall beyond the containers. The man gave Milano a gap-toothed smile. “Lookin’ for somebody?”

  “The landlord,” said Milano. “I was told he’s in the cellar.”

  “Uh-huh. But that door’s locked solid and no use skinnin’ knuckles on it. When he’s workin’ in there either he don’t hear or he don’t want to hear.”

  “I see,” said Milano. “You the super?” According to all reports Kirwan was supposed to be his own super.

  “I super across the street. Just help out here. Al Bunting.” He cocked an inquiring eye. “You on building business?”

  “Not an inspector. Private business. John Milano.” It was a cue for the card players to quit focusing on him and get back to their game, which they did. Al Bunting, however, seemed willing to be sociable. Milano said to him, “How long will he be in there?”

  “Don’t know. Been doin’ a job there most of the day already, so he got to come out soon, I guess, get a bite to eat. Like that every day. Told me coupla weeks ago he got to fix up them boiler pipes once and for all, been at it since then. Wastin’ time, man. You need new iron in there, not clamps over all them leaks.” He showed that smile. “Most of them pipes is older than me and even rustier.”

  “You seem to be doing all right,” Milano said in honest compliment. He looked around. “Building itself looks pretty solid too. Needs work,” he said thoughtfully, planting the seed, “but it could be worth it.”

  Bunting seemed doubtful. “Could be. Trouble is, you put in the work and right away somebody fucks it up. Some messy people here. And”—he motioned with his head at the card players—“some mean ones. Rip off what ain’t nailed down, bust up what is. Know what I mean?”

  “Oh yeah.” Milano gave it a couple of beats. “But that big house next door is Kirwan’s too, isn’t it? Fine old house. And wide open for rip-off and bust-up. How come that one looks so good? Connections in the neighborhood take care of him maybe? Send out word to lay off?”

  Bunting grinned broadly. “Could put it that way.”

  “Could I?”

  “Uh-huh.” Bunting motioned at the card players. “Most of them dudes lives right here. Way I hear, their mamas put it to
them that they tangle with that man he gonna come right back with that eviction paper. Rent control building here, too. You get yourself rousted out of here, any other place like it you will pay maybe double the money. See? That kinda makes mama the connection you talkin’ about, don’t it? Also—”

  “Yes.”

  Bunting scratched his forehead reflectively. “Well, you could say he is an easygoin’ man. Peaceable, you know? He don’t hassle them uglies about what goes on with this building, they don’t hassle his house. That is how you got to do it, man. I super that Number Four-sixteen across the street, I give them uglies there space, they give me space. Control. Keep that temper nice and cool. Makes livin’ a lot easier for one and all.”

  “Turn the other cheek,” said Milano.

  “Most times. But one of them ever lays a finger on me personal, I bust his fuckin’ arm. Outside of that, peaceable is the word, man. You ask Mr. Kirwan, he’ll give you a whole talk on it. Says it works, and he the proof. Sure seems to be.”

  “Sure does,” said Milano, “but it’s a little hard to ask him anything this way.”

  “He’ll be out. Could be soon.”

  It was soon. A few minutes after Milano had posted himself on the street at the head of the stairs there was a scraping of footsteps in the passageway below. Funereal dragging footsteps. Milano moved to the head of the stairway and saw Father Time himself making it up the first step with an effort. The yellowish ten-watt bulb in its cage overhead dimly illuminated a tall cadaverous figure moving with an arthritic hitch of the hip, a face in chiaroscuro all sharp angles and deep hollows under an unkempt head of white hair.

  The first step up was hard for Kirwan. The second was murder. He needed to grip the iron railing on either side to give himself leverage, but a weighted plastic shopping bag in one hand made this tricky. Milano moved down a couple of steps. “Can I help you?”

  Kirwan squinted up at him. “I think you can. Yes.” The enunciation was precise, the voice pleasant, but it sounded like the lungs were being charged with air just to propel the words any distance. A cough followed them. Not outward. A sudden wheeze and crackle in the chest. Must have been an eruption of mucus into the mouth too, from Kirwan’s suddenly tight-lipped and wrinkle-nosed expression. And where anyone else in this situation and this place would simply have spat it out, Kirwan showed his gentlemanly colors. Dragged out a handkerchief from his hip pocket and deposited the load into it. He carefully folded the handkerchief before putting it away. “I’ve been doing a job of plumbing,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid I’ve overdone it. Now if you’ll just relieve me of this bag—”

  Milano reached down and took the shopping bag inside of which something clinked metallically. Even free of this burden Kirwan had to work hard to make it up to street level. He finally reached it and stood there struggling for breath. Under the sunlight he didn’t come off as ancient as he had in the dimness of the passageway, but sickness was more plainly stamped on him. Grayish complexion, purplish tone to the lips. Not what you’d call your average prepossessing landlord figure. Coarse dust-bunnies clung to the back of the frayed cardigan, the trousers were paint-stained ruins with more dust-bunnies adhering to the cuffs, the footwear was grimy sneakers. But the manner was courtly. “I thank you, sir. I believe you’re the one my handyman told me wanted to see me.”

  “Yes. Hoped you wouldn’t mind talking over some business.” Milano handed over the engraved card, and Kirwan closed one eye to squint at it with the other. The card, one of an assorted dozen or so, was Willie’s brainstorm, and not a bad one at that. Under the John A. Milano was inscribed the all-purpose Properties Consultant which, if you nailed John A. Milano to the wall, he could truthfully describe as consultant in handling security problems for the property owner. Otherwise, it invited the broadest interpretation. The kind Kirwan was now apparently leaning toward.

  “And what properties do you have in mind, Mr. Milano?”

  “Matter of fact, could be this one. I represent some investors – well, I don’t want to make it sound like a philanthropic project – but these are people who are interested in neighborhood redevelopment. A neighborhood like this, say. Marginal right now, could go up, could go down, population heavily ethnic—”

  “You don’t have to qualify that, Mr. Milano. You can just say population ethnic.”

  It was hard to tell if Kirwan was being cute about this. The face remained expressionless, no flicker of humor showed in the glassy eyes.

  “All right,” said Milano, “population ethnic. That means your average investor stays away. We don’t.”

  “I see. Are you saying you’re interested in buying this building, Mr. Milano?”

  “At least interested in discussing possibilities.”

  “You’ve seen that abandoned apartment building down the block, I’m sure. Do you know you could probably pick it up for back taxes?”

  “Yes,” said Milano. “And then have to lay out maybe a couple of hundred thousand to make it viable.”

  “Ah yes. Viable.”

  The old man was being cute.

  “Livable,” said Milano. “For the occupants.” Cute old bastard, all right. And glancing at his wristwatch now, getting ready to sign off. That door into 407 fifty feet away began to look like fifty miles away. Condescending cute. But house-proud. Could be an Achilles heel, that house-proud. Milano took careful aim at it. “Of course, if I were sole investor, if it were my money alone – you own this property next door, too, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s what I’d be itching to buy. An architectural gem. I’ve seen others in this class but none in this condition. About eighteen-eighty, isn’t it?”

  “Just about.” Bull’s-eye. Kirwan now looked as if oxygen was being pumped into those bronchial or asthmatic or whatever lungs. He regarded his home tenderly, running his fingers slowly back and forth across his mouth. “But most definitely not for sale, Mr. Milano.”

  “I can’t blame you for that,” Milano said soberly. He switched his attention to the house again. “Classic American Queen Anne. And that paint job. You’ve held to the original color, haven’t you?”

  “Chestnut. Oh yes. You appear to know your architectural history.”

  “Kind of an avocation. Along with historical interior decoration.” When you’ve got the subject wondering, baby, lay it on thick and move it fast. Milano wrinkled his brow. “By any chance, is the interior authentic too?”

  “Oh yes. Yes indeed. Allowing for some inevitable improvements. No gas mantels now, I’m afraid. And comparatively modern kitchens and bathrooms. And some repair of furniture, but never reconstruction of them or the interior woodwork. Never.”

  “Unbelievable.” Milano hoped he was looking properly awestruck. “You know, Mr. Kirwan, if it isn’t an imposition—”

  Kirwan glanced at his watch again. “Well—”

  “I’ll gladly settle for the express tour. And no talk about business. Plenty of time for that another day.”

  Bull’s-eye again.

  Milano carried the plastic bag, and as Kirwan worked his key into the lock of the front door he managed to take surreptitious inventory of the bag’s contents. Thermos bottle, flashlight, large pair of shears, some kind of round-nosed pincers busted into detached halves, nothing at all to suggest that an acid factory or pill plant was being operated out of 409’s cellar. It would have been nice to come up with a dozen unlabeled bottles of capsules, although this would have dented logic by making Kirwan the inside man and Lorena his connection to the outside. Not that there was much logic in the idea that Kirwan would casually turn over to this stranger a bag containing felonious merchandise, but logic itself, good old-fashioned police procedural logic, didn’t seem to offer much of a handle for Lorena’s goings-on.

  Or, for that matter, Kirwan’s. Eccentric was the word for it if you were rich, loony if you weren’t, but how to figure this moneyed landlord with the expensive obsession for High Victorian, a
nd the painful hip condition, and that gut-tearing cough which made him look apoplectic as he fought it now and again – how to figure this character crawling around the fouled-up boiler pipes of a fouled-up apartment building day after day doing hopeless repair work, unless you wrote him off as an authentic crackpot? That, as the Bard had put it, was the question.

  Crackpot? But there were those quick-minded, sharp-edged flashes that seemed to indicate otherwise.

  And, as it turned out, the interior of the house provided evidence that Kirwan didn’t suffer Collyer brothers’ syndrome, that packrat hoarding and piling up of decaying junk which, as clear a signal as any, signals galloping senility. Far from it. This place, marooned here in the middle of beat-up Ethnicville, was a treasure chest. Oak-panelled walls, sculpted inglenooks, arched and curving ceilings, superb Gilded Age naif floral designs on hallway windows. And the furnishings. A Victorian crowding and clutter, organized for a formidable coziness. Some superlative Duncan Phyfe plus Biedermeier and Morris pieces to make those polished floorboards creak under their weight. Everything mahogany oak, walnut, ebony. Brussels carpets, the real goods, the colors showing true around threadbare patches. A dazzling show of Morris glass. Predictably, the art on the walls was a dead loss. Original Germanic pastorals along with copies of Alma-Tadema, Millais, Landseer and company, all – originals and copies – ornately framed. Front parlor, interior sitting room, library, dining room, pantry and maid’s room off the kitchen, and finally the kitchen itself, big enough to hold a ball in. Milano blinked at the table there, the trim chairs, the severe Mondrian lines of the wallracks.

  “Authentic Shaker?” he asked, and “Oh yes,” wheezed the proprietor of the works. “Authentic Shaker.”

  Reversing course, Milano did sketchy arithmetic, starting with that kitchen layout, picking up with the massive Biedermeier cabinet at the head of the dining room. Cherrywood? Had to be natural cherrywood and with a fine ebony inlay like lace trim decorating each panel. Adding it up all the way, room by room, the furnishings in sight would call for a reserve price of at least two or three hundred thousand. And that would be strictly reserve price, no telling what the competitive prices on the auction floor could hit, considering the skyrocketing market. And the army of moneyed meatheads ready to ride the rocket still higher.