Know why? They projected a half-inch over the sidewalk! Mister, the city wants this neighborhood to decline, so the land-grabbers can get it and the grafters can get their cut!" "Now we're planning a Christmas Block Party to bring in a little business," said Mrs. Cobb, "but there's so much red tape." "You gotta get permission to decorate the street. And if you want to play Christmas music outdoors, you get a permit from the Noise Abatement Commission. If you want to give door prizes, you get fingerprinted by the Gambling Commission. If you want to serve refreshments, you get a blood test at the Board of Health. Nuts!" "Maybe the Daily Fluxion could expedite matters," Qwilleran suggested. "We have some pull at City Hall." "Well, I don't care one way or the other. I'm gonna go scrounging." "I'd go with you," said the newsman, "if I didn't have this bum knee." Mrs. Cobb said to her husband, "Don't go alone! Can't you get Ben to go with you?" "That lazy bugger? He wouldn't even carry the flashlight." "Then ask Mike. He'll go if you give him a couple of dollars." She looked out the window. "It's starting to snow again. I wish you'd stay home." Without any formal goodbyes, Cobb left the apartment, bundled up in a heavy coat, boots and knitted cap, and after another cup of coffee Qwilleran rose and thanked his hostess for the excellent dinner.

"Do you think the Fluxion could do something about our Block Party?" she asked as she accompanied him to the door and gave him a snack for the cats. "It means a lot to C.C. He's like a little boy about Christmas, and I hate to see his heart broken." "I'll work on it tomorrow." "Isn't he wonderful when he gets wound up about City Hall?" Her eyes were shining. "I'll never forget the time I went with him to the City Council meeting. He was making things hot for them and the mayor told him to sit down and keep quiet. C.C. said, 'Look buddy, don't tell me to pipe down. I pay your salary! I was so proud of my husband that tears came to my eyes." Qwilleran went back across the hall, unlocked the door, and peeked in. The cats jumped down from their gilded thrones, knowing that the waxed paper package he carried contained pot roast. Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles, while Koko made loud demands.

The man leaned over to rub Koko's head, and that was when he saw it — on the floor near the desk: a dollar bill! It was folded lengthwise. He knew it was not his own. He never folded his money that way.

"Where did this come from?" he asked the cats. "Has anybody been in here?" It had to be someone with a key, and he knew it was neither of the Cobbs. He inspected the typed sheets on his desk and the half-finished page in his typewriter. Had someone been curious about what he was writing? It could hardly be anyone but the other tenant in the house. Perhaps Ben doubted that he was a writer — it had happened before — and sneaked in to see for himself, dropping the dollar bill when he pulled something out of his pocket-glasses, or a handkerchief, perhaps. The incident was not really important, but it irritated Qwilleran, and he went back to the Cobb apartment.

"Someone's been snooping around my place," he told Mrs. Cobb. "Would it be Ben? Does he have a key?" "Goodness, no! Why would he have a key to your apartment?" "Well, who else could get in?" An expression of delight began to spread over the landlady's round face.

"Don't say it! I know!" said Qwilleran with a frown. "She walks through doors."

12

Early Monday morning, Qwilleran opened his eyes suddenly, not knowing what had waked him. Pain in his knee reminded him where he was — in Junktown, city of sore limbs.

Then the sound that had waked him came again — a knock at the door — not an urgent rapping, not a cheery tattoo, but a slow pounding on the door panel, as ominous as it was strange. Wincing a little, he slid his legs out of bed, put on his robe and answered the summons.

Iris Cobb was standing there, her round face strained, her eyes swollen. She was wearing a heavy coat and a woolen scarf over her head.

"I'm sorry," she said in a shaken voice. "I've got trouble. C.C. hasn't come home." "What time is it?" "Five o'clock. He's never been later than two." Qwilleran blinked and shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, as he tried to recall the events of the previous evening. "Do you think the police might have picked him up again?" "If they had, they'd let him phone me. They did last time." "What about the boy who was going with him?" "I've just been around the corner to Mike's house. His mother says he didn't go with C.C. last night. He went to a movie." "Want me to call the police?" "No! I don't want them to know he's been scrounging again. I have a feeling he might have fallen and hurt himself." "Want me to go and see if I can find him?" "Would you? Oh, would you please? I'll go with you." "It'll take me a couple of minutes to get dressed." "I'm sorry to bother you. I'd wake Ben, but he was out drinking half the night." "That's all right." "Dress warm. Wear boots." Her voice, normally musical, had flattened out to a gloomy monotone. "I'll call a taxi.

C.C. took the station wagon." "Do you have a flashlight?" "A small one. C.C. took the big lantern." As Qwilleran, trying not to limp, took the woman's arm and escorted her down the snow-covered steps to the taxi, he said, "This is going to look peculiar, going to a deserted house at this hour. I'll tell the driver to drop us at the corner. It'll still look odd, but…" The cabdriver said, "Fifteenth and Zwinger? There's nothing there! It's a ghost town." "We're being met there by another car," Qwilleran said. "My brother — driving in from downriver. A family emergency." The driver gave an exaggerated shrug and drove them down Zwinger Street. Iris Cobb rode in silence, shivering visibly, and Qwilleran gripped her arm with a steadying hand.

Once she spoke. "I saw something so strange when I was coming home from church yesterday morning.

Hundreds of pigeons circling over Junktown — flying round and round and round — a big black cloud. Their wings were like thunder." At the corner of Fifteenth, Qwilleran gave the driver the folded dollar he had found in his apartment and helped Mrs. Cobb out of the cab. It was a dark night. Other parts of the sky reflected a glow from city lighting, but the street lights in the demolition area were no longer operating.

They waited until the cab was out of sight. Then Qwilleran grasped the woman's arm, and they picked their way across icy ruts where the sidewalk had been cracked by heavy trucks hauling away debris. Several houses had already been leveled, but toward the end of the block stood a large, square, solid house built of stone.

"That's it. That's the one," she said. "It used to have a high iron fence. Some scrounger must have taken it." There was a carriage entrance at the side. The driveway ran under this porte-cochere, and there was evidence of tire tracks, partially filled with snow. How recent they were, it was impossible to tell.

"I suppose he'd park around back, out of sight," Qwilleran said.

They moved cautiously up the driveway.

"Yes, there's the wagon!" she cried. "He must be here…. Can you hear anything?" They stood still. There was dead silence, except for the lonely whine of tires from the expressway across the open fields.

They went in the back door. "I can hardly walk up the steps," Iris said. "My knees are like jelly. I have a terrible feeling — " "Take it easy." Qwilleran guided her with a firm hand. "There's a loose board here." The back door showed signs of having been wrenched open violently. It led into a dust porch and then into a room that had been a large kitchen. Only the upper wall cabinets remained. Lying in the middle of the floor, waiting to be moved out, were a pink marble fireplace and a tarnished brass light fixture.