Who's Sorry Now?

by Jill Churchill

  “Good idea. I don't get much mail, but when I'm waiting for something I've ordered like an unusual piece of plumbing tubing, or a special kind of paintbrush, it's a nuisance to rummage through the bags with everyone else's mail."

  “I'm glad you like the idea," Robert said. "Mainly because you and your brother will have to make the sorting furniture. You'll be paid for your time and skills, of course," he said breezily, not knowing if this would come true. If not, he'd have to find the money himself. Or rather, Lily would have to persuade Mr. Prinney to use the estate money.

  “Could you manage it with scrap lumber?" Robert asked Harry.

  “I have more scrap wood than I know what to do with. Now I have a way to get rid of it." Harry rubbed his hands together and smiled. "I've never taken on a job like this, but it sounds interesting.”

  While they were talking, Robert was taking in their living quarters. Howard Walker had always hated this house. It was close to the river. It had reeked of mildew. The trains shot by in the small gap between the house and the Hudson River, hooting loudly, making it impossible for Howard to ever get a good night's sleep.

  The Harbinger boys had done wonders with the house. The windows had been replaced with smaller ones with thicker glass. There was no longer a smell of rot or mildew. They'd apparently used up some of their scrap wood, adding it to the inside wall that faced the railroad tracks as additional soundproofing. One train raced by while they'd been speaking and neither of them had had to raise their voices.

  “This plan we've talked about isn't in the petition," Robert said. "I wanted to keep it as simple as I could." He went on to explain what had led him to take this on, describing the three old women pawing over other people's mail, and one of them even suggesting that they destroy one letter for the recipient's own good.

  Harry was shocked. "Do you have a pen? I'll sign it right now. Nobody should be able to destroy other folks' letters or cards.”

  After he'd signed his name, he said, "I'll start drawing up some plans. I might do two or three and let whoever makes the decision choose."

  “Thanks, Harry. I have to get one or two more people to agree about the petition before I start collecting the rest of the signatures.”

  Robert went back to the train station and asked Mr. Buchanan, the train stationmaster, if they could speak privately.

  “Nothing's very private here. But there's not a train for another twenty minutes. Let's stand outside."

  “It's about those women I saw pawing through everybody else's letters and cards," Robert said.

  Buchanan nodded. "It's disgraceful, isn't it? Nosy old things."

  “Right," Robert said, glad to hear that Buchanan agreed.

  He handed the petition to Buchanan, who looked it over and had questions. "Who's going to build it? Who's going to sort it?" Are the drawers or boxes going to have a combination lock?”

  Robert paused before replying. "I hadn't thought of locks. I'll tell the Harbinger boys to put hardware on and those who want to can buy a lock."

  “But lots of people don't come in every day for their mail. Who will put the mail in the boxes without knowing the combination?”

  Robert was embarrassed to admit he hadn't thought of that either. "But I did think about who would sort. I think the city fathers should pay Mr. McBride to sort it.”

  Robert was suddenly discouraged by his plan. Other people he would be approaching would ask the same questions, and probably others he hadn't thought of. He decided to consult with the residents of Grace and Favor for what else he might be asked, and suggestions for replies.

  When dinner was done that evening, he outlined the problem of the locks. "If there are combination locks ...”

  Phoebe Twinkle interrupted to ask what that term meant.

  “The kinds that have numbers around in a circle and you turn the dial to your numbers to open them."

  “Does everybody have to have a different combination that the porter has to remember?" Phoebe asked.

  “I suppose so. That's the problem in a nutshell. There will be at least two or three hundred boxes. That's about how many people still live in Voorburg, I'd guess," Robert said.

  “I don't think there are that many," Lily said. "Haven't you noticed how many businesses and houses have been abandoned by people going to California?"

  “Okay, I'll check on this, but it's not really the problem I'm currently worried about.”

  Phoebe, who had raised the question of combinations, suddenly stood up and came as close to shouting as a lady could. "I've had a Eureka idea. Give the three snoops one combination for all three of their boxes, then give everyone one of two combinations."

  “How will that help?" Robert asked.

  Lily said, "Robert, you're being uncharacteristically dim-witted. The three old ladies will soon discover that their combinations are the same as one another's and assume, incorrectly, that everybody else's are the same. While in fact, half of them are another combination and the other half are a third combination. The porter can certainly remember all three.”

  Phoebe chimed in again. "Have the old ladies' boxes in the middle, set up vertically. And one combination for the boxes to the right of them and immediately above them—the other combination below them and to the left.”

  Everybody at the table except Robert was happy with the solution. But he was a little sorry that two young women figured out what he couldn't. Harry Harbinger hadn't thought this out, nor had the stationmaster, except to ask questions about the locks.

  All three of them failed to come up with a possible solution. And the women had had several suggestions. This was a concept that scared Robert.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday, April 19

  ROBERT HAD THE SENSE that this postal project wasn't going to be as easy as he'd originally imagined. He needed to know the approximate number of people who currently lived in Voorburg-on-Hudson and outlying areas that were still being farmed. How could he find this out?

  Where would Edwin McBride sort the mail? Not on the middle of the floor of the train station. That would create an equally chaotic situation as there was now.

  Then there were the combination locks to think of. Even if McBride had a table near the boxes, he'd have to have all the doors open at the same time to sort them into the right boxes.

  And what would happen to big packages, like the one he'd had shipped to himself with Lily's birthday present?

  The post office boxes couldn't be that big or they'd take up all the walls of the station.

  Who would know the answers to this multitude of queries?

  He'd have to go back first to Harry Harbinger. After all, Harry and his brother had to make the sorting area and allow for the hardware.

  When he caught up with Harry Wednesday morning, Robert was surprised that the town's best handyman had already given Robert's ideas some thought.

  “I don't like the idea of combination locks built into the doors. For one thing, it's expensive. And nobody knows yet what this is going to cost."

  “What's an alternative?" Robert asked.

  “Well, there are keys, of course. But people would lose them and the lock would need to be changed on a lot of them from time to time. My brother and I won't agree to be responsible for this."

  “Is there another alternative?" Robert whined.

  “Oh, sure. Hardware that could take a combination lock. A piece of metal with a hole in it sticking out on the door, and another on the strip that separates the boxes. The person renting the box would supply for himself or herself a combination lock to slip through both holes. Some people know they don't get things that the snoops would be interested in, so they wouldn't even have to buy a combination lock."

  “Brilliant!" Robert exclaimed. "Now, how and where will Mr. McBride sort the mail?”

  Harry rolled his eyes at this question. "Robert, think about this. The inside of that station is huge. It was built around the turn of the century when Voorburg had a much bigger p
opulation. There was even a hotel my dad told us about, for wives and children. The husbands came on the weekends.”

  Robert said, "So?”

  Patiently Harry explained. "There is plenty of space to set the box thing out into the room with a sorting room behind it. I've measured how much scrap wood I have, and I can make two hundred boxes that are four inches wide, four inches high, and nine inches deep. They'll be open at the back, and I'll build a long skinny table that can be used to sort the mail by box number. Same as the number on the front of the box.”

  This time Robert actually slapped his head. "I guess there's a door to this back room?”

  Harry was getting frustrated. "Did you think Mr. McBride could crawl in through a letter box?"

  “But, Harry, we don't know how many people there are in Voorburg. Will two hundred boxes be enough?"

  “They'll have to be enough. When they're done, McBride can sell lottery tickets for them. Twenty-five cents each ticket. That will help fund his payment, and if the town council coughs up the initial cost, McBride could pay back a dime for each ticket. And I assume you're expecting people who have the winning numbers to also pay some small amount a year to use them. That's how you could reimburse the costs—if the town council agrees to funding the plan. Half to McBride, half until the city is paid back."

  “Of course," Robert said as if he'd already thought of this. He hadn't. And suspected Harry knew it.

  “You don't happen to know what became of my can of red paint, do you?" Harry asked.

  “I didn't even know you had one," Robert replied.

  “Mrs. White wanted a little chest painted red for her adopted girls. I had it almost finished and my paint and best brush disappeared.”

  Robert said, "I'll keep an eye out for anyone painting something red. Thanks for your advice about the mail.”

  Later on Monday, Robert learned how the stolen can of paint had been used. He'd decided to drop in at Mr. Kurtz's new shop to find out how business was going so far. He was shocked when he saw Mr. Kurtz and his granddaughter scraping a red swastika off the front window of the tailor shop with razor blades. "Wait!" Robert exclaimed. "Have you called the chief of police about this? He needs to know. Look here," he pointed at a faint blob of extra paint. "It's a fingerprint. Don't scrape it off until Chief Walker sees it.”

  Mr. Kurtz objected. His face was pale and frantic. "How could someone think I was a Nazi? I came halfway around the world to escape them."

  “You need to sit down inside and wait until I call Chief Walker."

  “Grandpa, Mr. Brewster is right."

  “I don't want anyone else seeing this," he said firmly, going back to scraping.

  “Then leave that fingerprint where it is," Robert said, pointing it out to Mr. Kurtz again.

  Chief Walker arrived in ten minutes. "I don't know how to remove a painted fingerprint and keep it intact. I'm going to have to call in an expert to lift it where it is.”

  He went inside to call for help while Mr. Kurtz kept scraping at the swastika. His granddaughter came inside and so did Robert.

  “Sit down and keep an eye on your grandfather so he doesn't scrape off the fingerprint and I'll make us some coffee," Robert said, wondering how much coffee he'd need, having never made it himself. "Or maybe we should do it the other way?" he asked Mrs. Smithson.

  “You don't know how to make coffee, right?" Mrs. Smithson said with a knowing smile.

  “Unfortunately not. Has your grandfather had customers yet?"

  “Yes. Mrs. White came in with some of her little girls' dresses to have the hems let down. She said she'd taken one of her dresses that needed taking in to the tailor in Cold Spring, and he was rude. Not only that, he did a very bad job. She was sure my grandfather would do a better job. She's such a nice woman, and I've never heard her complain. But she was bitter about the other tailor. She'd bought a dress that was on sale without trying it on, and the seam at the shoulder was wrong. Too wide. That tailor just pinned it, and even poked her arm with a pin. When she went back, he'd just folded the fabric back into the shoulder and made the sleeves bunch up. Grandpa told her to bring the dress in when she picked up the little girls' dresses and he'd fix it correctly.”

  Mrs. Smithson went on, supposing Robert was more interested than he really was. "She brought in those adorable little girls she adopted to have their dresses let out at the hems. They're getting taller. Grandpa told her the dresses wouldn't look good that way. The inside color wouldn't match the outside. So he took her back where he has all his fabrics and let her choose fabrics that matched some of the colors in the dresses and added them to the bottom hems, sort of like petticoats. He also told the girls how pretty they were."

  “Mrs. White is dotty about those little girls," Robert said. Anybody else come in?"

  “Later on a man came in and just looked around.”

  “Did you recognize him?"

  “Never saw him before."

  “What did he look like?"

  “I didn't pay much attention. I was fixing Grandpa a sandwich. A smallish man, shorter than I. Not quite clean, skinny. Thinning brown hair. Grandpa asked if he needed anything tailored. The man just shrugged. He was watching as Grandpa was hanging up his shears on the back wall, and putting his other things in drawers under the counter. I'll make the coffee. Keep a close eye on Grandpa.”

  Watching Mr. Kurtz wasn't as easy as it sounded. The old man had almost finished scraping off the swastika and was eyeing the extra blob of paint. As he approached it, Robert said, "You can't scrape that off until the finger print man gets here."

  “Yes, I will. My window must be clean.”

  Robert had to cup his hand carefully over the paint spot to keep the tailor from destroying it. Kurtz was angry, and he went inside to get a damp rag to clean up the paint that had fallen onto the sill of the window. Robert maintained his uncomfortable stance, until Chief Walker and the fingerprint expert arrived half an hour later. By then Robert's right shoulder and wrist were in agony from holding his hand cupped over the fingerprint.

  “I've never seen such a fingerprint," the expert said with a laugh. "Talk about a stupid crook." He rummaged through the bag he'd brought along, dusted some powder over the fingerprint, lifted it with a bit of sticky paper, and put the paper in a small box with great care.

  “It will take a while to compare this to our list of known criminals."

  “How long?" Robert asked. "Probably a week. Maybe more."

  “May Mr. Kurtz scrape it off? He's determined to do so."

  “I probably should take a second sample then," the fingerprint expert said. "Just to be sure we have a good copy, and so someone else can help me search the records we have on file."

  “Do it now, please," Robert begged. "My arm aches from protecting it.”

  When the two boxes had been taken away, Mr. Kurtz immediately scraped away the fingerprint. Then he proceeded to clean the entire window with rags and vinegar.

  Chief Walker asked if Robert had already had breakfast. Robert admitted he had, but said, "I could do with another. Mrs. Prinney has run out of flour so there was no bread this morning. First time it's ever happened.”

  Howard complained, "The woman at the boardinghouse tried to use last night's corned beef in a horrible omelet. The corned beef had dried out and the eggs were overcooked. Let's go to Mabel's and have a good early lunch. There's something I want to talk to you about.”

  They were both so hungry that they didn't speak until they'd eaten. They were at a table at the very back of the restaurant and the place was almost deserted.

  “Here's my question," Howard said, seeming somewhat reluctant to put it bluntly. "You take boarders at Grace and Favor. Miss Twinkle and Mrs. Tarkington. Would I qualify as another boarder?"

  “Of course you would, I assume. The women, in particular, would like to have another man around, especially an officer of the law. But are you sure you want to be that far from town?"

  “It's downhill all t
he way," Walker said, folding his napkin and putting it beside his empty plate. "Not as time consuming as fighting my way up the hill."

  “But you'd need your telephone line run clear up there," Robert said. "I'm sure the household wouldn't want to be answering your calls."

  “I've thought about that and priced it. What I'd save on the boardinghouse room and the tiny overflow office there would more than make up for the cost of a telephone line. I'm sick to death of my clothes and hair smelling of cabbage. It's the pervasive odor of the entire boardinghouse I live in now."

  “It takes a unanimous vote to accept a boarder," Robert told Howard. "But I'm sure it would be in your case.”

  Robert went on to explain what Mrs. Smithson had told him about Mrs. White's earlier visit to Mr. Kurtz and how downright angry she'd been at the other tailor.

  “That's unusual. I've never heard her be critical of anyone. Robert, I hope you convince the people at Grace and Favor to save me from the cabbage stink.”

  That evening Robert was right. The same questions he'd asked Howard were asked of the residents and boarders and the maid Mimi.

  He waited until after dinner to raise the issue of Howard's moving into Grace and Favor, and had asked Mrs. Prinney and Mimi to delay cleaning up after dinner for a few minutes.

  All the women instantly agreed, as he had expected they would. For one thing, Howard Walker was good looking, socially acceptable, and would increase their sense of safety, not that this was terribly important often. It was Mr. Prinney, who raised the questions. "How would he take telephone calls? There's only one extra line, and that's in my home office.”

  Robert explained what Howard had said about having his own telephone line.

  And would he take all his meals here?" Mr. Prinney asked.

  “Probably not," Robert said. "But we don't all eat every meal here. Mrs. Tarkington takes a packed lunch during the school year, and Phoebe always takes one to work at her hat shop. Chief Walker would probably eat lunch at Mabel's. It's closer to the jail in town, where he spends most of his time.”