The Second Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 20 More Classic Mystery Stories
- Автор: Пауэлл Тэлмидж
- Год: 2015
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Second Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 20 More Classic Mystery Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
Mrs. Lominac lowered her hand slowly. So much for that. She knew how she had been burgled.
But by whom? She found the answer rather touching: obviously by some poor hungry soul who, contrary to intending any harm, had dined on the most frugal food in the house.
At four o’clock that afternoon Mrs. Lominac was in the kitchen taking a load from her clothes dryer when she heard a car approach and stop outside. Visitors were too rare a treat nowadays, and Mrs. Lominac was in an instant flurry, dumping the clothes in a wicker basket and rushing to the side door that served as an outside entry to her apartment.
She flung the door open, a frown catching quickly as she saw the official markings on the car that had halted in the driveway nearby.
She watched Sheriff Grimsby get out, a big, reddish man in boots, poplin jacket, and Stetson. His weight crunched solidly across the snow-crust. His big-jowled face split in a smile to relieve the question in Mrs. Lominac’s eyes. “Just passing, Mrs. Lominac, and thought I’d say hello.”
She ushered him in and took his hat, her eyes sparkling with the advent of company. “It was certainly thoughtful of you, Sheriff, dropping in this way. Do sit down. I’ll have tea ready before you can say Jack Robinson!”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m afraid I haven’t time, Mrs. Lominac. This isn’t entirely a social call.”
“Oh?”
“I’m doing a favor for some folks who live over in the old Cranston place.”
“You mean that tumbledown shack by the river? My goodness, I thought the place was deserted since Mr. Cranston passed away. His son lives in New York, you know, and never sets foot in these parts.”
Sheriff Grimsby nodded. Under the urging of Mrs. Lominac’s bright eyes, he eased his bulk to the edge of a sofa. “Seems the son was propositioned by some people to rent the place... for next to nothing. They got a legal paper to prove they’re not trespassing.”
Mrs. Lominac, sitting stiffly erect in a Windsor chair facing the sheriff, pursed her wrinkled lips. “I can’t imagine anyone living in that cracker box.”
“These ain’t run-of-the-mill people, Mrs. Lominac. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about them.” Grimsby’s robust, hearty face quirked ruefully. “We’ve had a small hippie commune in our midst for three, four weeks now. Half a dozen youngsters living over there.”
Mrs. Lominac’s eyes sparked with quick interest. “That must have jarred some of our good people, I can imagine, Sheriff!”
The lively remark brought a chuckle from Grimsby. “You imagine right, Mrs. Lominac. Had a delegation call on me, wanted them chased out of the county.” Grimsby shrugged. “But what could I do? They were there legally, not squatters. Minding their own business. Soft-speaking kids. Peaceful. Even gentle.”
Grimsby’s voice trailed off. Mrs. Lominac shifted in her chair, the movement impatient for Grimsby to get on with the story.
“The delegation wasn’t happy, but accepted the reality. I thought the matter was closed, figured the kids would hang around for a while and drift on. But a couple nights ago...” Grimsby’s teeth bit off the words. A breath flared from him.
“Yes, Sheriff?” Mrs. Lominac prodded.
“Carload of local toughs went out there,” Grimsby snorted. “Big men, you know. Out for some fun.” The sheriff’s voice thickened with sarcasm and disgust. “They snuck up, busted in, scattered the commune, and chased the kids roundabout the woods and hills until the whole thing got to be a bore.”
“Did you catch them, Sheriff?”
“You kidding? Didn’t know anything about it until a boy from the commune came into town this morning. Said one of them hadn’t returned. So,” Grimsby rose heavily, “I’m just sort of checking around to see if anybody’s seen this kid. About twenty, from the description I got. Slender. Long brown hair and beard. Dressed in Navy surplus pants and pea jacket.”
Mrs. Lominac’s gaze drifted toward her kitchen. She thought for a moment, then nodded decisively to herself. “I haven’t seen him, but I think you’ve solved my mystery. I think he was here.”
Reaching for his hat, which Mrs. Lominac had carefully deposited on a drum table, Grimsby went rigid for a second. “How’s that? Mystery? He was here — in this house?”
“I’ve no real proof, Sheriff. But someone entered and quietly stuffed himself with peanut butter sandwiches. I didn’t know until yesterday morning, when I discovered the food missing.”
Grimsby stood fingering the brim of his five-gallon hat. “It adds up,” he agreed. “The kid gets lost, wandering around. Scared to go back to the commune, anyhow. Probably figures the others feel the same way. Starving and got nothing but the clothes on his back. Then he stumbles onto the sight of this big old house where a harmless little woman evidently lives alone.”
Mrs. Lominac smiled. “Don’t worry about me, Sheriff, I seem to have been quite safe.” Her smile became a brief laugh. “You might even say he was the most courteous of burglars.”
Grimsby paused with his hand on the doorknob. “At least I’m glad none of our local boys, even the punks, are guilty of bashing a head in.”
“Do come again when you can visit longer, Sheriff.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Lominac. And thanks for the help.” The sheriff opened the door, glanced across the snow-blanketed, empty fields. “Could be the boy is hitchhiking his way to Florida by this time.”
“Good-bye, Sheriff,” Mrs. Lominac called, framed in the open doorway.
Grimsby waved a reply as he slid into his car. Mrs. Lominac watched him drive away, and then closed the door against the winter chill.
She crossed the room slowly, going to the kitchen. She mulled the whole thing over in her mind while she folded the linens she’d taken from the clothes dryer.
By six-thirty, Mrs. Lominac had finished the few things that needed ironing. She folded the board, swinging it up into its wall niche, crossed the kitchen, and turned on water for tea.
She couldn’t decide what she wanted for dinner. She opened the food storage cabinets over the counter topping that stretched away from the sink on either side. She studied canned goods, boxes, jars, fingertip thoughtfully against her chin.
Then a slow frown began to form in the network over her eyes. Thoughts of dinner faded. She was nagged with the feeling that something was out of place... something was wrong. Her subconscious had noticed and was trying to tell her.
She reached and touched items in the cabinet. It was really quite irksome, this knowing that you were looking at something you couldn’t recognize.
Then it came to her. The glass container of baked beans was missing. She always bought the same brand. She had bought them day before yesterday, in the grocery order she had brought home. She’d put them in this exact spot...
She drew back, a tiny pulse beating in her slender, wrinkle-enfolded neck. The lost, wandering boy had eaten here... peanut butter one night... baked beans the next?
A spark flared in her eyes. In a sudden burst of action, she hurried into the bedroom, slipped into a heavy coat and galoshes. She swathed her head in a woolen scarf as she dashed into the twilight; cold outside. It took her less than ten minutes to circle the house, her eyes surveying the white, unbroken sheet of snow that covered the hills, fields, gullies.
She entered her apartment, cheeks pinked from the cold. Taking off her outdoor garments, she dropped them across a chair, her gaze slanted toward the ceiling of the room.
The snow had fallen afresh after the intruder had come here. Now, there were no tracks going away from the house, except for the sheriff’s and the tire marks of his car.