Mary gave him a skeptical glance and started to sketch slowly. "It was in the workroom-at the rear of Andy's shop.
The back door is here," she said. "To the right is a long workbench with pigeonholes and hangers for tools. Around the edge of the room Andy had furniture and other items, waiting to be glued or refinished or polished." "Including chandeliers?" "They were hanging overhead — perhaps a dozen of them. Lighting fixtures were Andy's specialty." "And where was the stepladder?" "In the middle of the room there was a cleared space — about fifteen feet across. The stepladder was off to one side of this area." She marked the spot with an X. "And the crystal chandelier was on the floor nearby — completely demolished." "To the right or left of the ladder?" "To the right." She made another X.
"And the position of the body?" "Just to the left of the stepladder." "Face down?" She nodded.
Qwilleran drew long and slowly on his pipe. "Was Andy right-handed or left-handed?" Mary stiffened with suspicion. "Are you sure the newspaper didn't send you to pry into this incident?" "The Fluxion couldn't care less. All my paper wants is an entertaining series on the antiquing scene. I guess I spent too many years on the crime beat. I've got a compulsion to check everything out." The girl studied his sober gaze and the downcurve of the ample moustache, and her voice became tender. "You miss your former work, don't you, Qwill? I suppose antiques seem rather mild after the excitement you've been accustomed to." "It's an assignment," he said with a shrug. "A newsman covers the story without weighing the psychic rewards." Her eyes flickered downward. "Andy was right-handed," she said after a moment's pause. "Does it make my difference?" Qwilleran studied her sketch. "The stepladder was here…and the broken chandelier was over here. And the finial, where he fell, was… to the left of the ladder?" "Yes." "In the middle of the floor? That was a strange place for a lethal object like that." "Well, it was — toward the edge of the open space — with he other items that had been pushed back around the walls." "Had you seen it there before?" "Not exactly in that location. The finial, like everything else, moved about frequently. The day before the accident was on the workbench. Andy was polishing the brass ball." "Was it generally known that he owned the finial?" "Oh, yes. Everyone assured him he had bought a white elephant. Andy quipped that some fun — type suburbanite would think it was a fun thing for serving pretzels." "How did he acquire it in the first place? The auctioneer said it came from an old house that had been torn down." "Andy bought it from Russell Patch. Russ is a great scrounger. In fact, that's how he fractured his leg. He and Cobb were stripping an empty house, and Russ slipped off the roof." "Let me get this straight," Qwilleran said. "Andy didn't believe in scrounging, and yet he was willing to buy from scroungers? Technically that finial was hot merchandise." Mary's shrug was half apology for Andy and half rebuke for Qwilleran.
He smoked his pipe in silence and wondered about this girl who was disarmingly candid one moment and wary the next — lithe as a willow and strong as an oak — masquerading under an assumed name — absolutely sure of certain details and completely blank about others — alternately compassionate and aloof.
After a while he said, "Are you perfectly satisfied that Andy's death was accidental?" There was no response from the girl — merely an unfathomable stare.
"It might have been suicide." "No!" "It might have been attempted robbery." "Why don't you leave well enough alone?" Mary said, fixing Qwilleran with her wide-eyed gaze. "If rumors start circulating, Junktown is bound to suffer. Do you realize this is the only old neighborhood in town that's been able to keep down crime? Customers still feel safe here, and I want to keep it that way." Then her tone turned bitter. "I'm a fool, of course, for thinking we have a future. The city wants to tear all of this down and build sterile high-rise apartments.
Meanwhile, we're designated as a slum, and the banks refuse to lend money to property owners for improvements." "How about your father?" Qwilleran asked. "Does he subscribe to this official policy?" "He considers it entirely reasonable. You see, no one thinks of Junktown as a community of living people — merely a column of statistics. If they would ring doorbells, they would find respectable foreign families, old couples with no desire to move to the suburbs, small businessmen like Mr. Lombardo — all nationalities, all races, all ages, all types — including a certain trashy element that does no harm. That's the way a city should be — one big hearty stew. But politicians have an a la carte mentality. They refuse to mix the onions and carrots with the tenderloin tips." "Has anyone tried to fight it?" "C.C. has made a few attempts, but what can one man accomplish?" "With your name and your influence, Mary, you could get something done." "Dad would never hear of it! Not for a minute! Do you know how I am classified at the Licensing Bureau? As a junk dealer! The newspapers would have a field day with that item…. Do you see that Chippendale chair near the fireplace? It's priced two thousand dollars! But I'm licensed as Class C junk dealer." "Someone should organize this whole community," Qwilleran said.
"You're undoubtedly right. Junktown has no voice at City Hall." She walked to the bay window. "Look at those refuse receptacles! In every other part of town the rubbish is collected in the rear, but Junktown's alleys are too narrow for the comfort of the city's `disposal engineers, and they require us to put those ugly containers on the sidewalk. Thursday is collection day; this is Saturday, and the rubbish is still there." "The weather has fouled everything up," Qwilleran said.
"You talk like a bureaucrat. Excuses! That's all we hear." Qwilleran had followed her to the window. The street was indeed a sorry sight. "Are you sure Junktown has a low crime rate?" he asked.
"The antique dealers never have any trouble. And I'm not afraid to go out at night, because there are always people of one sort or another walking up and down the street. Some of my rich customers in the suburbs are afraid to drive into their own garages! " The newsman looked at Mary with new respect. Abruptly he said, "Are you free for dinner tonight, by any chance?" "I'm dining with my family," she said with regret. "Mother's birthday. But I appreciate your invitation." Then she took a small silvery object from the drawer of a secretary-desk and slipped it into Qwilleran's hand. "Souvenir of Junktown," she said. "A tape measure. I give them to my customers because they always want to know the height, width, depth, length, diameter, circumference, and thickness of everything they see." Qwilleran glanced toward the rear of the shop. "I notice nobody's bought the Mackintosh coat of arms." He refrained from mentioning that he had dreamed about it. "It's still there, pining for you. I think you were made for each other. When the right customer meets the right antique, something electric happens — like falling in love. I can see sparks between you and that piece of iron." He gave her a quick glance; she was quite serious. He tugged at his moustache, reflecting that one hundred twenty-five dollars would buy him two suits of clothes.
She said, "You don't need to pay for it until after Christmas. Why don't you take it home and enjoy it over the holidays? It's just gathering dust here." "All right!" he said with sudden resolve. "I'll give you a twenty-dollar deposit." He rolled the hoop-shaped coat of arms to the front door.
"Can you manage it alone? Why don't you ask C.C. to help you carry it up to your apartment?" she suggested.
"And don't drop it on your toe," she called out, as Qwilleran struggled down the front steps with his burden.