Henry walked back to the sales counter, and I took a stroll down the next aisle over, surveying all the rugged, “manly” items in that section-the fishing rods, tackle boxes, hunting knives, boat paddles, lanterns, and inflatable life vests so indispensable to life in the wild on the untamed isle of Manhattan. The adjacent lane featured more of the same: tents, sleeping bags, tool boxes, hand pumps, saws, axes, flashlights, and lunchboxes.
A lunchbox! I squealed to myself, struck with a sudden happy inspiration. Stooping to inspect the three different models displayed on a lower shelf, I picked up the nicest one and examined it closely. It was made of steel-black enamel outside, white enamel inside-and it had a rounded top, a sturdy handle, two lock clasps, strong hinges, and a pint vacuum bottle with a screw-on aluminum cup top.
It was perfect! The ideal gift! I couldn’t wait to wrap it up and give it to Lenny-who, as I’ve mentioned before, was so intent on avoiding the office elevators he brought his lunch to work every day in a brown paper sack.
Delighted with my serendipitous and timely find (there were only two shopping days left until Christmas), I merrily hugged the lunchbox to my breast and carried it up to the sales counter. “May I pay for this by check?” I asked, knowing I didn’t have enough cash to buy Lenny’s gift as well as Elsie’s dinner.
“Of course!” Henry gushed, pink cheeks glowing. “That’ll be two dollars and twenty-nine cents.”
I made out the check, and Henry put the lunchbox in a shopping bag. “See? I knew you’d find at least one thing you need,” he said, handing the bag over to me. “Henry’s Hardware has something for everybody!” If he had let out a loud “Ho, ho, ho!” I’d have found it entirely appropriate.
THE GREEN MONKEY WAS FIFTY PERCENT full (or fifty percent empty, depending on your point of view), and most of the mostly male customers were sitting or standing at the long walnut bar, jabbering noisily. I yearned to join the boisterous, laughing crowd and throw down a fast highball or two, but I took a seat in a booth instead. It was the ladylike thing to do. (No nasty remarks, please!)
Before I even had a chance to light up a cigarette, Elsie Londergan breezed in. She hooked her coat on the rack near the door, waved to the bartender, and slid into the booth across the table from me. “Brrrrrr!” she said, removing her green wool gloves but leaving on her green felt hat, which had a sprig of fake holly pinned to the brim. “I’m wearing thick wool stockings, a heavy wool skirt, two slips, and two sweaters, and I’m still freezing! I think I’ll have a hot buttered rum instead of a beer, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” I said, nervously adding up the extra cost in my mind. I’d have enough, I figured, if I didn’t order a drink. I hoped there’d be a dime left over for the subway.
“So, Paige Turner,” Elsie said, craning her chiseled John Wayne chin over the scarred wood tabletop and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you dug up any dirt? Do you know who killed Judy?”
“No,” I said, suddenly feeling very tired and dejected. “I don’t have a clue. But I have spoken to a few…”
I cut my sentence short when the waiter appeared to take our order. Elsie ordered a hot buttered rum and a hamburger with a side of fries. I asked for a hamburger and a glass of water.
As soon as the waiter left, Elsie leaned over the table again. “Hey, why the water?” she wanted to know. “Are you a teetotaler or something?”
“No,” I said, grimacing at the horrible thought, “I’m just trying to keep a clear head.” I didn’t tell her that my head hadn’t been clear since 1951.
Elsie patted the fringe of blue-gray hair sticking out beneath her hat and smiled sympathetically. Then she turned her attention back to the murder. “So, who did you speak to? Have you learned anything important?”
I gave her a quick summary of everything that had happened since I’d seen her the day before, relating the highlights of my conversations with Vicki Lee Bumstead and Jimmy Birmingham. “Gregory Smith’s real name is Gregory Smythe,” I told her, “and Judy knew it all along. And since she always told you everything, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you that.”
“Me, too,” Elsie said, pausing, looking perplexed, obviously giving the matter further thought. Then suddenly her eyes popped wide. “I bet I know what happened!” she sputtered. “I bet Judy did give me his real name, but just didn’t say it right! She wasn’t very well-educated, you know, and she was always getting her words mixed up. She probably thought ‘Smith’ was the right pronunciation.”
Elsie’s explanation seemed possible-even plausible-to me. “Did she ever give you his personal address or phone number?”
“No, but she probably didn’t have that information herself. Cheating sidewinders like Smythe like to keep that kind of stuff secret.”
“What about Jimmy Birmingham? Did Judy ever mention him?”
“Yeah, he was her boyfriend before Smythe. She said he was a poet or a sculptor, or something arty-farty like that.”
“Did he ever visit her in her apartment? Did you ever see him in your building or around the neighborhood?”
“Can’t say. I never met the man, so I don’t know what he looks like.”
I took the picture of Judy and Jimmy and Otto out of my purse and handed it to her. She held it up toward the light for a couple of seconds, then slapped it down on the tabletop. “Yes!” she cried, getting excited. “I did see this joker around the neighborhood a couple of times! I remember because he was carrying that little dog under his arm. Had it wrapped up in a towel. Do you think he’s the one who…”
Elsie stopped talking when the waiter reappeared with our food and drinks. And after the waiter left, she was too busy chomping fries and guzzling rum to speak. And when she started chewing on her hamburger with the gusto of a famished fullback, I realized our conversation wouldn’t be resumed until she had finished eating. So I took a sip of my water, slathered ketchup on my bun, and tackled my own hamburger-matching Elsie bite for bite.
Our plates were clean in under five minutes. “You want coffee?” Elsie asked, popping the last french fry in her mouth.
The jig was up. I could actually hear my wallet groaning. “Yes, I do, Elsie,” I said, sighing, “but I can’t have any. And neither can you.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like washing the dishes.”
“You mean you don’t have enough money?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?” she cried. “I can kick in for the java. I got lucky at bingo last night.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Java would be swell.”
The waiter cleared our dishes and brought us two steaming mugs of coffee. Then we both lit up cigarettes and returned to more homicidal concerns.
“Did Smythe give Judy any expensive gifts?” I probed, wanting to find out if Elsie knew about the diamonds. “Any furs or jewels or anything that might have attracted a burglar or a killer?”
“He gave her a bunch of jewelry, but I bet it was just paste.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Smythe strikes me as a world-class cheapskate, that’s why!”
“But he paid Judy’s rent…”
“Yeah, but that didn’t set him back much. Only sixtyfive bucks a month. You’ve seen my apartment! Well, Judy’s was just like it-a small dark railroad with no doors and lots of cockroaches. Not exactly the Taj Mahal.”
“Yes, I know,” I admitted. “I was there this afternoon.”
“You were?” Elsie said, taken aback. She braced her broad shoulders against the wooden backrest of the booth and looked at me suspiciously. “And how did that little event come about?” Was it my imagination or was she upset about something?
“I saw an ad for Judy’s apartment in the paper so I went to Chelsea Realty and asked to see it, pretending I was looking for a new place to live. I wanted to see the place firsthand. Your landlord took me over.”