8

With a stubborn determination to unearth the truth about the death of Andy Glanz, Qwilleran continued his tour of Zwinger Street. He walked past the Bit o' Junk antique shop (closed) — past The Blue Dragon — past a paint store (out of business) — past a bookstore (pornographic) — until he reached a place called Ann's 'Tiques, a subterranean shop smelling of moldy rugs and rotted wood.

The little old white-haired woman seated in a rocking chair resembled a dandelion gone to seed. She looked at Qwilleran blankly and kept on rocking.

"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Daily Fluxion," the newsman said in his courtliest manner.

"Nope, I haven't had one o' them for years," she replied in a reedy voice. "People like the kind with china handles and a double lid." Qwilleran inspected the litter of indescribable knickknacks and raised his voice. "What's your specialty, Miss Peabody? "No sir! No discounts! If you don't like my prices, leave the things be. Somebody else'll buy 'em." Qwilleran bowed and left the shop. He walked past a billiard hall (windows boarded up) — past a chili parlor with a ventilator exhausting hot breath across the sidewalk (rancid grease, fried onions, sour mop) — until he reached the fruit and tobacco shack of Papa Popopopoulos. There was an aroma of overripe banana and overheated oil stove in the shack. The proprietor sat on an orange crate, reading a newspaper in his native language and chewing a tobacco-stained moustache of great flamboyance.

Qwilleran stamped his feet and clapped his gloved hands together. "Pretty cold out there," he said.

The man listened attentively. "Tobac?" he said.

Qwilleran shook his head. "No, I just stopped in for a chat. Frankly, that last pouch I bought was somewhat past its prime." Popopopoulos rose and came forward graciously. "Fruit? Nize fruit?" "I don't think so. Cozy little place you've got here. How long have you been doing business in Junktown?" "Pomegranate? Nize pomegranate?" The shopkeeper held up a shriveled specimen with faded red skin.

"Not today," said Qwilleran, looking toward the door. "Pomegranate make babies!" Qwilleran made a hasty exit. There was nothing to be learned, he decided, from Andy's two prot‚g‚s.

It was then that he spotted the shop of The Three Weird Sisters, its window filled with washbowl and pitcher sets, spittoons, and the inevitable spinning wheel. Arch Riker might flip over this junk, but Qwilleran had no intention of flipping.

He squared his shoulders and marched into the shop. As soon as he opened the door, his nose lifted. He could smell — was it or wasn't it? Yes, it was — clam chowder!

Three women wearing orange smocks stopped what they were doing and turned to regard the man with a bushy moustache. Qwilleran returned their gaze. For a moment he was speechless.

The woman sitting at a table addressing Christmas cards was a brunette with luscious blue eyes and dimples.

The one polishing a brass samovar was a voluptuous orange-redhead with green eyes and a dazzling smile. The young girl standing on a stepladder hanging ropes of Christmas greens was a tiny blonde with upturned nose and pretty legs.

Qwilleran's face was radiant as he finally managed to say, "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Yes, we know!" they chorused, and the redhead added in a husky voice, "We saw you at the auction and adored your moustache. Sexiest one we've ever seen in Junk- town!" She hobbled toward him with one foot in a walking cast and gave his hand a warm grasp. "Pardon my broken metatarsal. I'm Cluthra. Godawful name, isn't it?" "And I'm Amberina," the brunette said.

"I'm Ivrene," said a chirping voice from the top of the stepladder. "I'm the drudge around here." The redhead sniffed. "Ivy, the soup's scorching!" The little blonde jumped down from the ladder and ran into the back room.

Flashing her dimples, the brunette said to Qwilleran, "Would you have a bowl of chowder with us? And some cheese and crackers?" If they had offered hardtack and goose grease, he would have accepted.

"Let me take your overcoat," said the redhead. "It's awfully warm in here." She threw her smock back over her shoulders, revealing a low-cut neckline and basic architecture of an ample nature.

"Sit here, Mr. Qwilleran." The brunette moved some wire carpet beaters from the seat of a Victorian settee.

"Cigarette?" offered the redhead.

"I'll get you an ashtray," said the brunette.

"I smoke a pipe," Qwilleran told the sisters, groping in his pocket and thinking, If only the guys in the Feature Department could see me now! As he filled his pipe and listened to two simultaneous conversations, he glanced around the shop and saw lead soldiers, cast-iron cherubs, chamber pots, and a tableful of tin boxes that had once held tobacco, crackers, coffee, and the like. The old stenciled labels were half obliterated by rust and scuffmarks, and Qwilleran had an idea. Arch Riker said he collected tin; this was the chance to buy him a crazy Christmas present.

"Do you really sell those old tobacco tins?" he asked. "How much for the little one that's all beat up?" "We're asking ten," they said, "but if it's for yourself, you can have it for five." "I'll take it," he said and threw down a nickel, without noticing the expression that passed among them.

The youngest one served the soup in antique shaving mugs. "The Dragon just phoned," she told Qwilleran. "She wants to see you this afternoon." She seemed unduly pleased to give him the message.

"How did she know I was here?" "Everybody knows everything on this street," the red-head said.

"The Dragon has this place bugged," the young one whispered.

"Ivy, don't talk silly." The sisters continued the conversation in three-part harmony — Cluthra in her husky voice, Amberina with a musical intonation, and Ivrene piping grace notes from her perch. Eventually Qwilleran brought up the subject of Andy Glanz.

"He was a real guy!" the redhead said with lifted eyebrows, and her rasping voice showed a trace of tenderness.

"He had quite an intellect, I understand," Qwilleran said.

"Cluthra wouldn't know anything about that," said the young one on the ladder. "She brings out the beast in men." "Ivy!" came the sharp reprimand.

"It's true, isn't it? You said so yourself." The brunette hastily remarked, "People don't believe we're sisters. The truth is, we had the same mother but different fathers." "Does this business support the three of you?" "Heavens, no! I have a husband, and I do this just for fun. Ivy's still in school — art school — and — " "And Cluthra lives on her alimony," chipped in the youngest, earning pointed glares from her elders.

"Business has been terrible this month," said the brunette. "Sylvia's the only one who's doing any business around here." "Who's Sylvia?" Qwilleran asked.

"A rich widow," came the prompt reply from the top of the ladder.

"Sylvia sells camp," the redhead explained.

"That's not what you called it yesterday!" Ivy reminded her.

"Where's her shop?" asked the newsman. "What's her full name?" "Sylvia Katzenhide. She calls her place Sorta Camp. It's in the next block." "Cluthra calls her the Cat's Backside," Ivy said, ignoring the exasperated sighs from her sisters.

"If you go to see Sylvia, wear earmuffs," the redhead advised.

"Sylvia's quite a talker," said the brunette.

"She's got verbal diarrhea," said the blonde. "Ivy!" "Well, that's what you said!" When Qwilleran left the Three Weird Sisters, he was walking with a light step. He had heard little Ivy say, as he walked out the door, "Isn't he groovy?" He preened his moustache, undecided whether to answer Mary Duckworth's summons or visit the loquacious Sylvia Katzenhide. Mrs. McGuffey was also on his list, and sooner or later he would like to talk to the outspoken Ivy again — alone. She was a brat, but brats could be useful, and she was an engaging brat, as brats went.