The Bric-a-Brac Man

suddenly, a blazing figure appeared--a human torch, stumbling and staggering across the garishly lit room

Part two of a new novel

Synopsis: When Arnold Hopkins, hip-pocket antique picker, closed a lucrative deal with Wilfred Sloan, a dealer in Oriental art, he thought that, for once, he had it made. But before Hopkins could collect his money, Sloan was killed in a mysterious car crash.

Desperate for money, Hopkins then sought out Barney Slocum, who offered him a chance to burglarize several places for a sizable cut. The first two jobs went smoothly; but the third, involving the Julians' fifth-floor apartment in a building with an elaborate security system, almost put Hopkins permanently out of commission.

From these jobs, Hopkins made enough money to fulfill a lifelong dream to open his own store, if only he could get some extra cash to complete his stock. His friend Hogan Guilfoyle told him about a crazy guy, Felix Merendaro, who believed himself to be the Devil and was thus in the market for souls. Virgin ladies and altar boys were his preferences, but he would settle for less. At Merendaro's, after much discussion about original sin and free will, the Devil finally agreed to purchase Hopkins' soul for $2000.

With the money, minus Guilfoyle's ten percent commission, Hopkins opened his store, but business was painfully slow and he realized that he was headed for bankruptcy. Frantic, he again went to Guilfoyle. While he was there, by a lucky mischance, Hopkins answered the dealer's phone and a Mrs. Crabtree, who thought she was talking to Guilfoyle, asked him to come over and view her furniture for sale. Hopkins was delighted to oblige.

The antiques were magnificent and the price fair. However, Mrs. Crabtree, a frail-looking woman in her 70s, turned out to be a crafty master swindler. When Hopkins returned to collect his pieces, he discovered that Tyrone, Mrs. Crabtree's bulletheaded son, had driven off with his merchandise. Only by grabbing Mrs. Crabtree's purse did he manage to recover his money.

Meanwhile, his cousin, Maurice Fitzjames--to whom he bore an uncanny resemblance--had heard about Hopkins' light-finger work and tantalized him with the prospect of breaking into the Ramsay house, which was inhabited by three veiled sisters and filled with half a million dollars' worth of art and other valuables.

By a lucky quirk of fate, the mansion was next door to Mrs. Dunlap's rooming house for well-to-do ladies on Commonwealth Avenue. Hopkins did odd jobs for Mrs. Dunlap, who, in turn, sold him furniture at low prices when one of her tenants died. Using the excuse that he had visiting relatives, he rented her vacant basement apartment. His plan was to break into the Ramsays' by knocking out part of a basement wall. After weeks of work, removing the wall brick by brick, Hopkins entered the Ramsay basement and noted that the house above was as quiet and ominous as a mausoleum.

When I told Maurice, he was eager. "Tuesday? What time?" he asked.

"Around two A.M.--which is when people are in their deepest sleep," I said.

"And you're entering by a window?"

"No, I'm going to slip under the front door," I replied mordantly. "Stop pumping me for trade secrets. If you want to learn how it's done, pull a few capers yourself, Maurice."

"Not me, thanks. Still, I ought to have some idea of what's going on."

"Why?"

"I'd feel more comfortable, that's why. Hey, I hope to hell you're not carrying anything lethal. I don't want to be involved in mayhem, Arnold."

"Neither do I. Call me Wednesday afternoon."

"OK," he answered. "Good luck."

"Thanks," I said dryly, and hung up.

•

I bought six strong sailcloth laundry bags at Central Surplus Tuesday morning and it was my firm intention to fill them all with loot that night. I hoped I might even fill them more than once.

About 11 that night, I returned to my basement apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, where I settled in the maple armchair and read from a history of the Rothschild family for a couple of hours. At 1:30, I got up, changed into dark clothes and sneakers and switched the lamp off to condition my eyes to the darkness. I was edgy but only moderately so. Ten minutes later, I donned cotton gloves, crawled into the hole with my laundry bags, unfastened the plywood panel and, cool as Labrador, entered the adjoining basement.

All was gratifyingly quiet. Wan shafts of light filtered in from the alley windows, though they supplied little real illumination. Having learned something from my nasty experience at the Julians', I covered my head and face with a black-nylon-stocking mask. It was tight, however, and I had to yank the fabric a bit before I was able to breathe through my nose.

I put a bag in each hip pocket, left the remaining four in the tunnel and started groping toward the alley door. When I reached it, I threw the bolt. Then, using the one tool I was carrying, an eight-inch screwdriver, I splintered and gouged the wood around that part of the frame. The police would expect evidence of forced entry. I wanted to ensure that they weren't disappointed--otherwise, they might decide to sound the walls.

Back through the shadows I crept, located the stairs and boldly ascended them. The door opened easily. A whiff of warm, faintly scented air hit my nostrils. I looked in and perceived a pantry and a kitchen at the end of a narrow hall. In the other direction, toward the front of the house, there were two doorways covered by portieres. It was for these that I headed, moving noiselessly along a hall runner as thick as the turf on a putting green.

The first door led to a walnut-paneled dining room. From its lofty ceiling a great chandelier descended, its drops and prisms gleaming like diamonds in the gloom. Most of the furniture was Regency mahogany--venerable, dignified, Parke-Bernet-type merchandise. A magnificent sterling tea service, the salver of which alone was worth $1000, sat in the center of the long table, while on the sideboard, there were four intricately cut glass decanters in a silver tantalus, a marvelous satinwood tea caddy and a samovar that was so lovely it must originally have belonged to a Romanov.

Anxious to view everything before making my selection, I let the portieres fall and hurried to the next door. This opened onto a parlor--a huge but well-proportioned room with stately pilasters and faint-blue figured wallpaper.

My eyes darted from one prodigy to another--two bronze nudes that could have come from Pompeii or Herculaneum, a beehive clock, a whatnot packed with copper and silver lusterware, six fantastic girandoles, a carved jade casket, an 18th Century chair-back settee, a tulipwood teapoy--and much, much more.

As breath-taking as these articles were, however, it was the paintings that really caused my heartbeat to quicken. The walls were lined with them and the majority were small enough to be easily whisked away. Mentally grouping them in tens, I counted nearly 100--landscapes, classical subjects, marines, still lifes, portraits, military and hunting scenes--and, with few exceptions, they were all oils.

Smothering a desire to run about snatching works of art with both hands, I traversed the parlor and passed under a Gothic arch into a spacious vestibule. On my right lay the principal staircase; on my left, the front door. I paused, held my breath and listened intently--but no sound reached my ears.

While I was pondering a small model of what appeared to be a submarine, a peculiar flickering movement among the shadows back of the desk caught my eye. I went to investigate. The source of the flickering was a low doorway sandwiched between two sections of the shelving. Stepping through it, I found myself in a tiny chapel. An immaculate white-marble altar was wedged in one end of this sanctum, and on it there rested a pair of silver-framed photographs. The subjects of these pictures were a matronly woman and a middle-aged man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles.

I guess if you sneak into people's homes at odd hours, you can expect to encounter a few queer sights. All the same, it was a shock to my system. Devoid of windows, low-ceilinged, stifling--the place might have been a sepulcher in a catacomb. And the old guy on the altar didn't enliven it much, either, because his expression was as grim as a Baptist preacher's in Las Vegas on New Year's Eve. I had a spooky feeling he actually sensed what I was up to.

Shaking off these silly fancies, however, I again set my mind to business. On the wall, I noted a little painting in a thick, carved frame. Depicted were a couple of women in hooded cloaks, embracing on the threshold of a house. One of them had a halo around her head. It had to be early Italian--14th or 15th Century, at least. The blues and reds were brilliant, like ceramic glazes. I fell in love with the picture instantly. Museum quality it was, beyond a doubt. I lifted it off the wall and shoved it under my jacket, murmuring to myself, "A very promising beginning."

In the library, behind an atlas, there was a mulberry tiled fireplace, above whose green-marble mantel hung a dusky round mirror like a Cyclops' eye. For a moment, I contemplated my own bizarre image in this glass--then I saw something in back of me that made my stomach suddenly convulse and my blood congeal.

On entering the library, I had noticed a closed door opposite the pedestal desk and supposed it led to the next room down the hall. Now that same door was visible to me in the dusky mirror, only it wasn't closed anymore. It stood ajar some six or eight inches and protruding (continued on page 118)Bric-a-Brac Man(continued from page 112) from the gap was a pallid hand clutching a nickel-plated revolver. Needless to say, it was pointed in my direction.

A myriad of frenzied notions enfiladed my mind, all traveling at the speed of light--yet, ultimately, one alone gained dominance over the rest: No matter what happened, I didn't want to die.

So I raised my hands and slowly turned around, saying as calmly as I was able, "Don't shoot. I surrender. Please don't shoot. I'm unarmed and I give up."

Hardly had these words left my mouth when the gun fired. Flame spurted out of its small muzzle and there was a deafening roar. I felt as if I'd been jabbed in the chest by a sharp stick or the ferrule of an umbrella--jabbed severely.

After that, events grew confused. I was on the floor, my nose an inch away from the base of the atlas. In the distance, a woman screamed. It was a prolonged, shrill, tremulous, harrowing cry. I heard doors slamming, a series of heavy footfalls and excited, muffled yelling. Nearby, clothing rustled. I began crawling along the carpet on hands and knees. Chair legs and other shadowy obstacles hindered my progress.

"Stop!" a sibilant voice commanded.

But I had no interest in stopping. Going was all I cared about--and the faster the better.

How I crossed the vestibule and the parlor, I don't remember. It wasn't until I got to my feet at the basement door that my brain resumed its normal functions. I wondered where I was wounded. The lungs? The stomach?

Down the stairs I staggered. At the bottom, I hesitated a few seconds and listened, but if there was any pursuit, my raucous panting prevented me from hearing it. I made for the game room, banging my skull on some exposed plumbing and rapping my shins on the seesaw. The hole was a welcome sight. I dove into it like a mouse fleeing a cat. Only after I had fastened the plywood panel shut and covered it with the Army blanket did I permit myself the luxury of a little hope.

Peeling off the stocking mask and the cotton gloves, I re-entered the bedroom that I had left with soaring expectations just a short while earlier. I unzipped the jacket, threw the Italian painting onto a chair and lit the lamp. When I removed my shirt and examined my chest, however, I found nothing worse than a bright-red bruise, about the size of a half dollar, just beneath my left nipple. I couldn't believe it. The skin wasn't even broken. I snatched up the jacket. There above the pocket was a tiny, ragged aperture. The bullet had hit me, yet I wasn't injured. Then I realized what must have happened and a nervous giggle bubbled from my mouth.

I stared down at the oil painting on the chair. In a corner of the frame, where the wood was thickest, a deep hole disfigured the floral carving. I took the picture in my hands and shook it violently. Onto the floor fell a misshapen chunk of lead.

"Small caliber," I whispered. "Small caliber. Lady Luck, I love you."

I turned the lamp off again and crouched in the darkness, waiting for whatever might happen next.

•

What I like least about catastrophes is their inclination to persist. All right, I'm willing to pay for my blunders--but in a single lump sum, not on the installment plan. It never happens that way, though.

The rest of that night I spent on my belly, trying to hear what the cops were saying on the other side of the plywood panel. They searched the Ramsay cellar thoroughly, and whenever they approached my hiding place, I stiffened with terror. Once, virtually in my ear, a coarse voice barked, "Son of a bitch must've run out the back door, the way he got in. Bastard's home in bed now, sleeping like a baby."

Glad as I was to hear this opinion, I was quite surprised by all the activity over there. It was a lot more than you'd expect for one lousy burglary. I had the impression a dozen men were poking around that basement--and later, two prowl cars with switched-on spotlights drove into the alley.

They would probably make inquiries in the neighborhood. If they questioned me, would my nerves hold? I asked myself. Suppose they discovered I was an antique dealer.

But it was essential to take things one at a time and not catapult to tragic conclusions. With this in mind, I stowed the painting, the mask, the laundry bags and my dark clothing in the cavity between the walls. Then I rolled the bed back to its original position, pushing it inch by inch, so as not to make a sound. The tunnel concealed again, I felt slightly more secure.

At dawn, the cars were still in the alley, but I was so exhausted by that time I hardly cared. Lying down on the bumpy mattress, I soon fell into a profound sleep.

Four hours later, I was awakened abruptly by a knock on the door. The previous night's events rushed into my consciousness and I shuddered beneath the bedclothes.

The caller was Mrs. Dunlap. In one hand she carried an empty bucket and in the other, a can of scouring powder. "Did I wake you, Mr. Hopkins? So sorry," she said, a faraway look in her eyes. "Just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Although I was happy to find it was only her, I feigned annoyance. "Certainly I'm all right," I said. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be, Mrs. D?"

"Oh, don't you know? Haven't you heard? But I guess you haven't, have you? The Ramsays. They're strange and unsociable, which is why I'm not too surprised, really. The whole street's in an uproar. Wealthy as they are, the Ramsays, they haven't had much luck. They live next door. Odd things happen to odd people--don't you agree? Marta Ramsay was murdered last night. A man broke into the house and strangled her in her bed. He was a thief and she caught him in the act."

"Murdered?" I exclaimed, suddenly realizing what the woman had said. "Who? Where?"

"Marta Ramsay--in her second-floor bedroom, next door."

I tried to gather my wits.

Mrs. Dunlap ogled me from behind her rimless glasses. "He got away, too," she continued. "The police say he may have been wounded, though, because a gun was fired at him. I didn't hear it--did you? No, I guess you wouldn't, being down here. They searched the alley for blood, but I don't think they found any. Did you hear an automobile starting up, Mr. Hopkins? That's what they asked me."

"No, I heard nothing," I answered quickly. "My bedroom door was shut--and so was the one to the kitchen. How did it happen, Mrs. Dunlap? Did they say?"

She shifted the bucket to her right hand and dropped the can of scouring powder into it with a clang. "Through the back door is how they think he got in."

I leaned against the doorjamb, because my legs were becoming flexible. "Are you positive there was a murder?" I asked. "Did they give you details? Maybe they exaggerated."

"No, no. Exaggerated? Why should they? Besides, I saw them take the body out this morning. I never thought to tell the police you were staying here, but since you didn't hear anything, it's just as well. They're rather a nuisance. Take up all your time. I hardly ever see you, Mr. Hopkins, but I did hear you drilling last week when I went to the storeroom for curtain rods. Do you think you could fix the valance over the window in the lounge of six-forty-one? It droops. And I suppose some of the ladies will want chains put on their doors now and heavier locks."

"I'll take care of that, Mrs. Dunlap," I assured her hurriedly. "I'll see to everything, but not today. I'm running a bit (continued on page 216)Bric-a-Brac Man(continued from page 118) late. Have to get dressed. Will you excuse me?"

"All righty," said the landlady.

Then, swinging her bucket, she retreated down the whitewashed corridor as I shut my door.

•

I wore a necktie and a good sports jacket, because if I was stopped and questioned as I left the building, I didn't want to look like a hoodlum. Avoiding the alley, I went out the Commonwealth Avenue door. There were plainclothesmen skulking around, I'm sure, but nobody hailed me.

"Back bay woman slain by intruder" was the headline at the bottom of the Globe's front page. "Marta Ramsay strangled with stocking . . . beautiful daughter of the late Captain James Coker Ramsay, famous marine architect and inventor . . . $100,000 painting stolen . . . killer forced alley door . . . surprised ransacking bedroom . . . may have been wounded . . . victim's sister Helga fired a pistol at the murderer, as he was fleeing . . . police checking doctors and hospitals."

Every word was a stiletto in my heart. I had been praying Mrs. Dunlap's version would turn out to be a muddled fantasy; now, like it or not, I had to accept it as incontrovertible fact. My stomach began to feel queer. What had happened? How could there have been a murder? I didn't touch the women--never approached them. And which one of them had died? Was it the stunning creature I'd seen the day I sat on the bench?

I read the article again. "Picture worth in excess of $100,000, spokesman says." Marvelous, I thought. Terrific. A final irony. The goddamn painting is so valuable, I won't be able to get a nickel for it.

•

The minute I identified myself, he asked, "Where are you calling from?"

"A booth on Mass. Avenue," I answered. "Why? Do you think my phone is tapped?"

"It's a possibility. Anything's a possibility with a maniac like you."

"Listen, Maurice, I----"

"Don't tell me. I don't want to talk to you. I don't even want to know you. You're demented--a psychopath."

I cursed and said, "If you know what's good for you, you'll talk to me."

"That's how it is? Nice. OK--but not on the phone." He paused, then inquired, "Are you hurt? According to the newspapers----"

"No, not a scratch. I was fortunate, though. See you in the restaurant at Coolidge Corner, by the trolley stop," I said, and hung up without waiting for his reply.

He had sounded alarmed on the telephone, yet when he arrived, he appeared as sedate as a bishop. His suit, shirt and necktie harmonized perfectly, and his razor haircut was such a work of art it might have been done by Michelangelo. I felt like Pete the Tramp.

"What happened?" he snarled. "A once-in-a-lifetime project, Arnold. How could you botch it up that way?"

"I had nothing to do with the death. Maurice--nothing at all. I stayed on the ground floor the whole time. I didn't set foot on the stairs, let alone go into the bedrooms. I never saw any of them--except a glimpse of the one who shot at me."

Then, in a subdued voice, I described my adventure, leaving out only how I gained entrance to the house initially. He listened without interrupting, but when I finished, he shook his head skeptically.

"I can't buy it," he declared. "I'd like to, but I can't. You were robbing those people and a girl got strangled. And you say you didn't do it? I mean, what the hell! Why did you go to the second floor, anyway? Downstairs, there was more treasure than you could carry, even if you had a wheelbarrow."

"I told you--I didn't go to the second floor. Can't you get it through your head? Something funny was happening in that house. I heard a lot of strange noises--screaming, yelling, people running."

"I'll bet you did," he said dryly.

"Maurice, you know me since infancy. Do you consider me a violent type? Do you?"

"You can't always tell about such things, Arnold. Everyone has a few secret kinks, I imagine."

"Thanks a heap," I said in an aggrieved tone. "And I nearly got murdered myself, don't forget."

"Yes. Snatching the picture was a lucky break for you."

I nodded. "Now that you mention the painting, what do you think we can get for it?" I asked.

Maurice removed his wrap-around sunglasses and stared at me narrowly. "I'm not handling that," he said at last.

"No? Why not? We're in this together--remember?"

His stare became a glare. "Are we?"

"Sure. Whatever I got, you were supposed to unload--and I got this oil painting, which is worth in excess of a hundred grand."

A frowzy waitress came to a halt by our table and commented, "Gee--you two are twins, aren't you?"

"Yes," I promptly answered, knowing it would irk my cousin.

"Identical twins," she said mawkishly. "One look and I could tell. I haven't seen any in years, either. You're just like two peas in a pod."

She grinned at us, then wandered off toward the kitchen.

"Hey--that woman might identify us in a courtroom sometime," Maurice muttered, his snake eyes shifting nervously.

"You don't want to be spotted in my company, do you? OK," I said. "No hard feelings--but can you get me ten thousand for this masterpiece? Fairly soon?"

"I can't get you a dime now. There's blood on it. Sit tight, Arnold. Later, when the heat dies down. I might be able to find a buyer. But I can't do a deal now, because you throttled that girl."

"I never laid a hand on her," I snapped, losing my temper.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm not crazy, that's how."

"Come on. What about your amnesia? Your blackouts?" he inquired, leaning toward me over the table.

My cousin's introducing this subject didn't surprise me. Since I had heard about the murder from Mrs. Dunlap, the disagreeable suspicion that I might have committed it unconsciously had been floating around in my mind like a cloud of poison gas. But I still didn't believe that it could have happened that way.

"Impossible," I retorted. "To begin with. I always remember when I have my amnesia, even if I don't remember what happened during it. Last night, no attack occurred. I can recall every moment--the entire sequence of events. Furthermore, when I black out, I behave in a perfectly normal manner--not like a homicidal lunatic. It's ridiculous to suggest I'd dash up a flight of stairs, burst into a bedroom and strangle a woman."

"OK. It was only an idea, Arnold," he said. "Look, I have to go now. I have to get back to the store. Stay cool, will you? If they pick you up, I'll do whatever I can to help--provided, that is, you don't implicate me. You can't expect me to be nice, if you're going to be nasty, can you?"

Ignoring the question, I said, "I'll see you, Maurice."

•

My cousin's advice, however, was sound. I really couldn't run away. A sudden disappearance might cause Mrs. Dunlap to add two and two together and arrive at an answer that could mean 20 years' imprisonment for me. Besides, there was the hole in her basement wall, which would have to be fixed before I packed up and left.

So back to the efficiency apartment I went. The first week, I rarely stepped out of the house, because there were cops everywhere. Eager as I was to get some sand and masonry cement to make mortar for my bricklaying. I didn't dare try to lug the stuff up the front steps or even through the alley.

What 1 did accomplish, though, was to assemble the pieces of wainscoting and baseboard into a single panel that could be installed or removed with relative ease. Four screws held it in place. It was a neat job, but I still had a cupboard full of loose bricks that someone might stumble onto, so I felt far from secure.

On Saturday, I met Mrs. Dunlap in the laundry room. She gave me a lengthy description of Marta Ramsay's funeral, which undermined my morale completely. I wondered if Marta had been the girl with the indigo eyes. When I returned to my apartment, I actually sat down and cried--a thing I hadn't done since childhood. Was I a killer? I asked myself. Had I murdered that poor girl? Was I some sort of werewolf? A Jekyll and Hyde?

The very next day, I took the painting out of the wall, wrapped it in brown paper, shoved it into a shopping bag and boldly carried it from the house. Ten minutes later, I had it in my Bay State Road apartment, safe and sound. There I removed the picture from the frame, covered it with polyethylene and slid it behind the bathroom mirror. I then sealed the opening between the mirror and the wall with epoxy filler--top, bottom and both sides. To make the epoxy look old, I touched it up with heavily diluted gray paint. The frame I took into my den and sawed into pieces, which I burned in the fireplace.

I went back to Commonwealth Avenue, pleased to have done something useful.

The days passed and the policemen never appeared at my door. Whatever my crimes, I'd evidently gotten away with them.

•

Finally, in the end, I had no choice but to sell the bulk of my stock, return the consigned items and close down my dream emporium. It was a dismal denouement; and by the time the smoke had cleared and I had satisfied my creditors, all that remained of my original investment was $207. So much for being a small businessman in America. So much for the free-enterprise system.

Virtually destitute, I phoned Cousin Maurice to see if I could peel a few bills off him, reminding the cheap bastard that I had spent a lot of money on our ill-fated joint venture--but he wouldn't part with a nickel. Not only that, he actually had the guts to suggest I break into the Ramsay stronghold a second time, now that things were quiet. After all his complaints! I was amazed. How greedy can a man be? In unequivocal terms, I told him I was finished with 548 Commonwealth Avenue--that I was prepared to starve to death, rather than take another crack at that place.

It was Barney Slocum who again came to my rescue. He paid me $1800 for taking a parure of diamonds from a wall safe in a ranch house off the Boston Post Road in Western. As I had a key for the safe as well as the front door, it was easier than stealing flowers from the Public Garden.

Not long after this windfall, another pleasant thing happened to me. I was returning to the Dunlap dungeon one morning, when I saw the girl with the indigo eyes. Since I had half convinced myself that she was the one who'd been strangled that ghastly night, it gave me a bit of a shock. There she stood, beside a mustard-colored Lancia in the Ramsay back yard, a look of mild vexation on her exquisite features. I gaped at her and she retaliated with a cool, disdainful glance. Then, to my surprise, she spoke.

"Are you from the A.L.A.?" she asked.

"No. The A.L.A.? No, ma'am. Sorry," I replied, my heart thumping turbulently. "Got a flat tire?"

She shook her head, whipping her dark silky hair from one slim shoulder to the other. "The battery's gone. It won't start. You wouldn't know anything about automobiles, would you?"

"Me? Oh, sure. I've been around them all my life. Want me to look at it?"

"If you wouldn't mind. I hate to be a bother." she said. "Do you live in the neighborhood?"

"Yes, in that house," I answered, pointing with my thumb.

She nodded absently. "Maybe it isn't the battery. Maybe it's the starter. It growls and growls, but it never catches."

I watched her as she turned to fiddle with the hood. Dazzling as she appeared from a distance, she was still more so close up. She had a lovely bisque complexion. like a fine Dresden figurine. Helen of Troy couldn't have been more stunning, I thought.

Stirring myself, I approached the car. Around it, the air was pungent with gasoline fumes. "I suspect you've flooded the engine," I commented.

"Oh?" she said.

"You've been pumping fuel into the cylinders, and now there's so much in there it won't ignite. Wait a few minutes, and then I'll give it a try."

I slid behind the wheel, pressed the gas pedal and turned the key. A second later, the motor commenced to hum.

"Wow! How did you do that?" the girl exclaimed.

I jerked the emergency-brake handle and climbed out. "The whole trick is to keep the accelerator on the floor until the engine turns over," I said, affecting nonchalance. "Don't pump the pedal, because that only defeats your purpose."

"I'll remember it always. You're a mechanical wizard--honestly. And I thought you were crazy. What's your name?"

"Arnold . . . Arnold Hopkins."

"Mine's Helga," she said, displaying a long, spectacularly beautiful leg as she got into the little automobile.

Then she gave me a smile--one that was warm enough to melt a polar icecap. I was still basking in it when the car took off and sped down the alley.

I almost danced to the Dunlap door.But while I was opening it, I remembered Helga was the sister who had tried to shoot me dead. It was a sobering thought.

•

Since I didn't have a shop anymore, I had to go back to being a picker--to scampering hither and yon in search of good buys and openhanded customers. Manny Robinson gave me a number of valuable articles on credit, and that helped a great deal.

Returning from Manny's, I had lunch in Needham at the McDonald's, and as I was leaving, I passed a man and an elderly woman who seemed vaguely familiar. I hopped into my wagon and started backing out. Through the rearview mirror, I noticed that these people were staring in my direction.

Suddenly, I remembered who the old woman was. She was Mrs. Crabtree's sister, Lydia--the infamous Mrs. Crabtree, who had almost worked that $1700 scam on me. And the husky man with Lydia was Tyrone of the bullethead. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been busy hauling away my fancy chairs and serpentine chest of drawers. An ugly brute, he was, and built like something you'd find at Stonehenge.

This process of recognition occupied only a second, but in that brief period, Tyrone began walking toward me. I didn't loiter. Shifting gears like Fittipaldi at Monaco, I sped out of the parking lot. Whatever he wanted to discuss with me, I was sure it wouldn't have been pleasant.

That same afternoon, I finally bought the sand and masonry cement with which to repair the brick wall, though I held off commencing the job, because I didn't have any extra time or extra energy. In any event, I wasn't especially anxious to leave Mrs. Dunlap's house. Having met Helga Ramsay, I thought it might be nice to stick around for a while.

Often I gazed out my kitchen window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Helga coming or going in her Lancia; but for some reason, I never did. Still, weird as it sounds, I derived considerable satisfaction from just living next door to the girl. And with the hole in my bedroom wall, I could almost imagine we were Pyramus and Thisbe.

However, there were also times when I thought about the other Ramsay sister, the one who had died--and then I became very morose and pessimistic. With all my heart, I wished I had never attempted that ill-fated burglary.

•

I was feeling melancholy in my Bay State Road apartment when the phone rang and I ran to answer it. But there wasn't anybody on the line, which upset me. I don't like anonymous phone calls. Muttering oaths to myself, I went into the bathroom and checked the epoxy filler around the mirror. It was intact. My masterpiece was still safe. Even though I couldn't sell the painting, I didn't want some itinerant thief filching it on me.

I ate a fast lunch, washed the dishes and left the apartment to deliver a wicker suitcase filled with things for a client. As I started down the stairs, I heard unusually heavy footsteps on a lower landing--and they were accompanied by a lot of loud, swinish grunting. Curious, I glanced over the banister. Coming up toward me was Tyrone Crabtree. Turning at once and walking on my toes, I went back to the fifth floor; but there wasn't sufficient time for me to regain my apartment before the ex-football player arrived, so I stealthily ascended to the next landing, which happened to be the one that led to the roof.

There I waited, listening. The footsteps came to a halt and my door buzzer droned long and peevishly. Naturally, there was no answer. Deep silence prevailed. Eventually, this was shattered by three knocks that sounded like a wrecker's iron ball pounding a frame house. They didn't induce a response, either, however.

"I know you're inside," an oddly gentle voice said in an undertone.

Straining my ears to catch these words, I suddenly became conscious of a noise closer to hand. Apparently, the swinging of the suitcase had activated the Donald Duck alarm clock in my suitcase, for now it was diligently ticking away. To me, it was very audible. I could only hope that the yeti on the floor below wouldn't notice it.

A second lengthy buzz occurred and the gentle voice spoke again. "I want to talk to you, mister," it said. "Why don't you unlock the door?"

No, thanks, I thought. I only converse with members of my own species.

For another few minutes, Tyrone buzzed and banged, but he was finally forced to accept defeat. As he started to trudge back down the stairs, I resumed breathing. It was at this critical juncture that the alarm on the Donald Duck clock went off.

What could I do? How does one cope with a jangling alarm clock in a wicker suitcase? There was no swift method of getting at it--and even if there had been, it wouldn't have helped. My visitor wasn't deaf. He had heard the racket and, feet clomping, was already on his way to investigate.

I unlatched the roof door and pushed against it. The damned thing wouldn't budge. Desperate, I hit it with my shoulder. It moved a quarter of an inch, but that was all. I never got a chance to make a third attempt, because, by then, Tyrone had materialized at the top of the stairs like a baleful, bulletheaded genie, fresh out of his bottle.

The man was massive. Though probably a size 20, his shirt failed by an inch to encircle his elephantine neck. Under the narrow knot of his tie, it gaped vulgarly. The jacket he wore didn't fit, either. Its sleeves were three inches too short, so that his thick red wrists extended well beyond the cuffs. As for his face, he could have played Frankenstein's monster without make-up. All they would have had to do was comb his hair down onto his forehead.

While we were looking each other over, the treacherous alarm ceased pealing. Tyrone seemed to take this for a signal, because he lunged at me, grabbed my arm and twisted it behind my back. The suitcase clattered to the floor. I was spun around like a mannequin. He then clutched the scruff of my neck, lifted me half off my feet and kicked the door open. Before I knew what was happening, we were out on the roof.

"Listen," I croaked. "Why are you mad at me, Tyrone? I only repossessed my own money. I didn't steal anything. It was my dough."

"You shouldn't have done it, anyway," he said mildly. "Momma got very excited."

"Well, older folks always get upset easily. That's how they are. I didn't mean to cause your mother trouble. But let's go see her, Tyrone, and I'll apologize."

"Can't. Not now, mister. Momma had a stroke that day. Two weeks later, she passed on--and it was all your fault, for taking the money."

My internal organs began to ice up like airplane wings in a blizzard.

"Passed on?" I squawked. "How awful! I'm so sorry. It wasn't my fault, though, Tyrone. We didn't even have an argument--just a calm discussion. Ask your aunt Lydia. I was perfectly polite--and your mother behaved like a real lady."

We stopped abruptly. My captor turned me around and stared into my eyes. "She was a real lady, wasn't she?" he said in a tender tone.

"Definitely. A true aristocrat--genteel, refined, a woman of quality," I babbled, doing my best to sound sincere. "And nowadays, you rarely meet people of that caliber. You were lucky to have such a wonderful mother, Tyrone."

I studied his grotesque mug for some sign of compassion, but deciphering the expression of a Frankenstein was no easy task. While I was thinking this, I remembered Barney Slocum's mentioning Frankenstein the night he brought me the news of Guilfoyle's mugging. Yes. He had said that Guilfoyle told the police the man who attacked him looked like Frankenstein. And Hogan had been thrown out a window.

Pieces of an appalling mosaic commenced to click into place in my agitated (continued on page 224)Bric-a-Brac Man(continued from page 220) mind. I grew limp with terror. Only Tyrone's support prevented me from collapsing in a heap.

"You're just trying to get on my good side," he declared, "but it won't work, mister. I'm not a dummy, you know."

With that, he tightened his grip on my neck and proceeded to frog-march me to the edge of the roof. I pleaded with him eloquently, using phrases so charged with pathos that they would have melted the heart of Caligula or Gilles de Rais. On Tyrone Crabtree, though, they had no effect at all.

Despite my frantic struggling, we drew nearer and nearer to the low parapet that marked the end of the building.

"Off you go," said the psychopath behind me, as if he were commenting on the weather.

I opened my mouth wide and bellowed as loud as I could. The pressure on my spine suddenly ceased. He wasn't pushing me anymore. Then the hand on my neck loosened its hold--and, since this gave me fuller use of my vocal cords, I produced another yell even louder than the first. Immediately, my arm was released. Thinking he was backing up for a final shove--a shove that would send me plunging to oblivion--I dropped to my knees on the gravel-covered roof. Seconds passed and nothing happened. Fearfully, I twisted around to discover what the demented bastard was doing and saw to my astonishment that he was running away from me. Eyes starting from his head and face as pale as tapioca, Tyrone raced toward the door. In another moment, he disappeared from view and I was alone.

How my salvation had come about, I simply couldn't comprehend. Had my shouting scared him off? It hardly seemed possible.

"A miracle," I gasped, dazed with relief.

I crawled to a television antenna and, using it for support, got to my feet again. No sooner had I accomplished this arduous task than a fuzzy gray kitten came prancing out from behind a nearby chimney. Tail high, it paraded past me.

"Cats. . . cats. . . cats," I stammered, suddenly remembering. "Cats. He's afraid of cats."

"Meow," the kitten purred, showing a tiny pink mouth.

When I staggered back to the hall, the gruesome Tyrone was fortunately nowhere in sight. Retrieving the wicker suitcase, I gained the safety of my apartment without further incident. There, behind a double-locked door, I poured myself a tumbler of sherry with fingers that vibrated like rubber snakes.

One aspect of the matter was crystal-clear--Hogan Guilfoyle had been deliberately murdered, and a very large share of the responsibility was mine. Tyrone had done it, believing he was the person who'd caused his mother's seizure and death--when, in fact, I was the actual culprit.

Then, when Lydia spotted me at the McDonald's in Needham that day, Tyrone realized his mistake. I suppose he copied my license number and obtained my address by calling the registry and pretending to be a cop--a well-known ploy among shady characters.

Poor Hogan! Defenestration. I began to feel ill. After hearing Mrs. Crabtree's vivid account of her husband's violent end, I should've recognized Guilfoyle's "accident" for what it really was. Perhaps I had subconsciously refused to see it, because of my own share in the crime--my own flagrant guilt.

"Why had I ever pulled that cheap trick on him?" I asked the empty room. "For the chance to hustle him out of a few dollars, I destroyed the man."

The Ramsay girl, and now Hogan. I was going through life like the Black Death.

Needless to say, from that day on, I was extremely uneasy. I actually considered buying a cat. However, the idea was impractical, because, though the animal might protect me in the apartment, it wouldn't be of any help if I were jumped in the hall. No doubt, I could have carried one around with me day and night in a pet satchel, but that, too, seemed an unsatisfactory solution.

The following Saturday, I drove past my house and noticed a bulky figure in a doorway. I couldn't be certain the figure belonged to Tyrone, but it looked disagreeably familiar. Without slowing down, I turned the corner and went back to Commonwealth Avenue.

Mrs. Dunlap, when I told her I'd be keeping the basement apartment a while longer, seemed delighted.

•

As I was taking some stuff out of the station wagon in the alley one Friday evening, Helga Ramsay drove up.

"Are you moving, Arnold?" she asked, when she emerged from her sports car.

"No, no. These are just some accessories I got for my apartment," I said, ecstatic at seeing her again. "How's the Lancia running?"

"Perfectly. I haven't had any problems since you told me what I was doing wrong. I ought to buy you a drink one day."

"I can be ready in two minutes, Helga," I answered.

She laughed melodiously. "I can't do it this very moment. I can't, honestly. My sister and I are addressing Christmas cards tonight--and there are scads of them."

"What about tomorrow, then?"

"All right--but in the afternoon. I'll be downtown. We could meet at the Hurlingham Pub, if you know where it is."

"I know it well," I said, though I'd never heard of the place. "What time?"

"Four-thirty, Arnold?"

"Four-thirty," I affirmed.

She waved at me with her fingers like a child, then turned and walked to the Gloucester Street end of the alley. She had a dignified, almost prim gait, yet it couldn't for a moment conceal the intrinsic sensuality of her slender body.

•

From the Yellow Pages, I learned that the Hurlingham Pub was on Tremont Place near Beacon, and at 4:20 the next day, arrayed in belled jeans and my $80 Donegal tweed jacket. I sauntered into the establishment--which was neither large nor particularly posh.

Helga had already arrived and was seated in a booth at the back, a nearly empty glass in her hand.

"You're early," she said.

"Had I known you were here, I would have been earlier still," I replied, sitting across from her.

"Gallantry. My, how nice it is to hear such chivalrous patter," she said, giving me a brief smile. "I'm drinking Campari and soda. What will you have?"

"I guess I'll have a bourbon and water."

"Goodness' sake--my father always drank that. He came from Kentucky. You're not from Kentucky, are you?"

"No, Helga," I said, greedily looking her over.

"He was in the Navy and designed submarines. The Government gave him medals. We traveled all around the world--Spain, Scotland, Hawaii, Japan, the Philippines."

"It must've been an exciting life."

She shrugged and finished what was in her glass. Then, signaling to a stout waiter in a red waistcoat, she ordered the bourbon for me and another Campari for herself. I had the impression she had been drinking there for a while. Her speech was infinitesimally fuzzy.

"My mother thought bourbon was terribly plebeian," she said. "Scotch and brandy, though, she considered chic. That's how Mother was. Elegance loomed large in her scheme of things. It really did. My sisters and I, for instance, always had to wear gloves--summer and winter. I owned stacks of them. They were mostly kid--white, black, gray, seal brown, beige, pale beige, rosy beige. And we had to know when to take them off or keep them on, too. Ladies remove their gloves to eat but not to shake hands. Were you aware of that, Arnold?"

"No," I said. "Never had a chance to cultivate those mysteries, Helga."

"Lucky lad. You haven't missed much. Elegance can be a thorn in the flesh. 'Don't wear slacks; they're vulgar. Don't wear earrings with sunglasses; it's cheap-looking. Don't wear shoes that have wedge heels or ankle straps; they're quite unflattering.' " The girl laughed. "There were hundreds of rules. What we did wear--perpetually, it seemed--were plain dark dresses and funny hats. I often thought about all the animals--kids, calves, alligators, ostriches--that had died to make my gloves, handbags and shoes. My sister Marta said I was morbid. She's dead now herself, poor Marta--killed by a burglar, not long ago. As a neighbor, you probably know the story."

"Yes," I answered guardedly. "A dreadful business."

"I shot at him--the burglar--with my father's gun, but I missed. He had a stocking over his face. I don't understand how I could've missed him. He was only a few feet away. It was like a bad dream."

Hearing her speak so matter-of-factly about those events, I longed to question her--to try to find out what really had happened--but, of course, I didn't dare.

The waiter returned with the drinks and she insisted on paying for them. Then, raising her glass, she toasted my mechanical ingenuity. While we drank, I subjected her to another intense appraisal. The clothes she had on now certainly weren't plain and dark. She wore a blue-velvet jacket and skirt--very modish--and a silk blouse the color of peach ice cream. I liked the blouse especially. The depth of the neckline gave me palpitations. I could've spent the rest of my life sitting there across from her.

She asked me what business I was in and I said I sold costume jewelry to retail stores.

Putting her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand, she declared in a dreamy voice, "I bet you're good at it. Perhaps someday you'll be a diamond merchant, Arnold. Perhaps you'll work in Amsterdam or Hatton Garden or at Cartier's in New York. I think I'll pretend you're a diamond merchant."

"Why, Helga?"

"It's fun, that's why. I enjoy fantasies. I enjoy imagining the men I'm with are superultraextraordinary."

"Very well," I said. "If it gives you pleasure, I'll be a diamond merchant at Cartier's--though I understand it's a difficult job."

"Honestly? I can't believe that. Handling diamonds all day long sounds like heaven on earth. My sister Ulla had an exquisite lavaliere that came from Cartier's. I used to love to touch it. She probably has it yet, because Ulla dotes on memories. Only this morning, she was reminiscing at breakfast. She went on and on--about Rota. That's a place in southwestern Spain where we lived for a year in an 18-room villa. Ulla adored that house. So did Mother. The servants were what she liked. We had quite a crowd of them. To Mother, servants were in the same category as hats--things that were good for the old morale."

"It must have been fairly comfortable," I remarked wryly. "Didn't you enjoy living there?"

"Oh, yes. I'm as fond of luxury as anyone. Why shouldn't I be, Arnold? The world's built on quicksand, and money is the only lifeline. Not that I have much at the moment. When Mother died, she bequeathed every cent to Ulla--and all the stocks, bonds and property, too. Quite a blow. She even got the rights to my father's inventions. Marta and I were transformed from heiresses to poor relations in the twinkling of an eye. Yes, the world is built on quicksand. I know."

"You won't get an argument from me," I answered. "My life's contained a few disappointments, also. Seems as if every time I reach for the gold ring, I fall off the merry-go-round. But why did your mother leave the whole estate to just the one daughter?"

"Because of the accident at New London. The accident was the beginning of all our misfortunes, I guess. It served her right, though. She never could keep her hands still. Always had to touch things, like a baby." Helga paused, stirred her Campari with a plastic polo mallet, drank a mouthful and licked her nether lip. Frowning slightly, she resumed speaking. "You see, there was this big ceremony at the submarine base--I forget what for--and this captain invited the family out for a ride in his boat. At the time, I was only 11, but I'd been on subs before and I knew it would be boring. Ulla was 16 and Marta was 14.

"I don't recall the name of the boat. It was a fleet type, though--an older model. My father and the skipper traded jokes about some of its outdated equipment. While the rest of us were being given a tour of the living quarters, sly Ulla sneaked off with a young lieutenant. Weeks later, at the inquiry, the lieutenant--his name was Davis--testified that Ulla had unlocked a valve on a manifold in the control room. She was fooling around--skylarking--but this manifold was the wrong thing to fool with. It regulated the compressed air that forced the water out of the ballast tanks. When Ulla turned the valve, she released this pressure directly into the control room. Davis tried to push her aside, but he wasn't quick enough. The air hit her in the face and stripped the flesh away. She lost everything below her eyes."

"Good God!"

"Yes--hideous, isn't it? Air seems so insubstantial. You wouldn't think it could do that, would you? But it blew Ulla's face right off--faster than you could blow the fluff from a dandelion head. They covered her with a gray towel, I remember. The blood kept dripping through it, though, onto her lace dress. With the streaks of red and white, she was like a repulsive piece of peppermint candy. That's the image that stayed in my mind.

"The worst of it was she'd been so beautiful--much prettier than Marta or me. It might have been better for everyone if she'd died then. The plastic surgeons did their best, but there was very little to work with. When she came home from the hospital, she was wearing a veil. She's worn it ever since--even in bed. And, to make Ulla feel less conspicuous when we went out, Mother insisted Marta and I wear veils, too. Father and Mother always pampered Ulla outrageously, which is why she got the money--about two million dollars, it amounted to."

Helga finished her drink and beckoned to the stout waiter. I had to gulp my bourbon to keep from falling behind.

"How stupid of me to do nothing but chatter of personal affairs," she said. "My family's sad history makes for miserable conversation. Let's talk about you now, Arnold. Tell me what you did today--what costume jewelry you sold. I'm tired of my own problems. Let's hear some of yours."

"Today I didn't have any problems, Helga. I was happy as a bird in spring, knowing I was going to meet you later."

"You're a good salesman," she said. "I can see that."

For an hour more, we sat there, drinking and joking. Toward the end, I moved over to her side of the booth and fondled her a little. She felt as good as she looked--even better, if that was possible. At six, we left and drove back to the alley in her mustard-colored automobile. There, for another 20 minutes, we kissed and cuddled. I wanted desperately to invite her into the efficiency apartment, but it was such a crumby place I hated to do so. At last, she said she had to go in. I told her I'd phone her the next day.

"No, no. Don't do that, Arnold," she retorted. "My sister gets angry if men call me at the house--and she listens on her extension, too. We'll run into each other now and then. Don't worry."

And that's how it was. For the rest of the night, I sat in the rock-maple armchair and dreamed with my eyes open. I didn't even eat dinner.

•

I never seemed to get a chance to repair the brick wall, and I often worried about it. Business was booming and I just didn't have any spare time. With Christmas approaching, everybody was buying. I made $1000 clear on a primitive painting I got from Al Crawford in Sudbury and sold to Milton Kaub on Charles Street. I netted another $600 on a fantastic pair of camphorwood chests that I bought from Nick Segilli.

Leaving a client's apartment one afternoon, I nearly collided with a stocky, round-shouldered fellow in a camel's-hair coat, who then grinned at me in an amiable way.

"Good afternoon, señor," he said forthrightly.

His nut-brown features were familiar, but for the moment, I couldn't place them.

"It's me, Mr. Hopkins," he exclaimed. "Me--Xochimilco. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, yes--of course," I replied. "How are you doing?"

"Excellent, señor. And you? Are you fine?"

"Couldn't be better, Xochimilco. Tell me, is the Devil still going strong?"

"Ah!" he breathed, rolling his dark eyes and adopting a sorrowful expression. "My master is not going strong at all, Mr. Hopkins. He is most sick. Only two weeks ago, they came and took him to the hospital for observations, and after that, they locked him up in a sanitarium for crazy people."

"Is that so?" I asked, concealing my satisfaction at the news with some difficulty.

"Oh, yes--I would never lie about such a serious tragedy," said the servant, though now he didn't look as grief-stricken as he had before. A glint of merriment had crept into his eyes. "The morning after Advent is when it happened. God's ways are mysterious, Mr. Hopkins--are they not? My master awakened with a nasty headache--and because of this, he was in a bad temper. Then, as I was serving lunch, he threw a chair out the window--a big chair, made of iron and leather. It only missed a lady on the street by that much." He held his hands a foot apart and smiled happily. "And when the police officers came to the door, my master hit one with the pepper-and-mushroom omelet and the other with a bottle of Asti Spumante. After they closed the steel bracelets on his wrists, there was little he could do except scream. Now señor, I live with my cousin, Anselmo, and his fat sister, Maria Carmen."

"Sorry to hear it," I said, returning his smile. "Perhaps you're better off, though. Working for a man as unpredictable as the Devil could ruin your own health, Xochimilco."

"You are right, Mr. Hopkins. But it is sad, because when my master was young, he was as normal as you or me. It was at a fiesta for the Blessed Virgin that his mind became crazy. Don Roberto, his father, was the one who destroyed the unfortunate man. They had a most terrible fight. This happened, you see, in Mexico--in Querétaro. A very powerful person was Don Roberto de Merendaro y Alcalá, with arms like a wood chopper's. He threw my master, Don Felix Jeronimo, out the window of the hacienda, in the same way Don Felix threw out the iron chair. But it was not so far to the ground. Don Felix landed exactly in the middle of the fire that the peons had lit for the roasting of the lambs, and though he broke no bones, this was the beginning of his funny ideas. That night, he decided he was the Devil, here on earth. He thought that God had thrown him into hell, because his own father had thrown him into the fire. It was a very disturbing thing for everybody, señor. They put him in a hospital in Monterrey for six--seven months, but when he came home again, he was still the Devil, like before. And he started buying souls. All the money he spent! Lucky for him he was rich. What will happen now, I do not know. I saw my master last week and for one whole hour, he complained to me about the chair in his room. He said he could not sit on it, because of his tail. The doctors told me they do not know how to cure him. He will be the Devil until the day he dies, I think."

"Until he dies?" I asked. "Who knows? Maybe God will let him continue to play the Devil even after he arrives in heaven--if heaven is where he goes, that is."

Xochimilco made a droll grimace, winked, shrugged his round shoulders and replied, "As you say, Mr. Hopkins--who knows? And maybe I will be his servant there, too. But in the meantime, I must hurry to the Braden Cafeteria on Boylston Street, where for eighty-four dollars a week I fix sandwiches and chicken salads. Goodbye, señor. Take care of yourself."

"Adios, Xochimilco," I said, as the chubby little man performed a half bow before turning and scampering away.

•

Helga was leaning against the door of her Lancia in the alley when I got home that evening.

"It's been more than two weeks," she said. "Have you been hiding, Arnold?"

"Hiding from you? Never!" I protested. "If you hadn't forbidden me to call, I would have phoned every day."

"I've stared out the window, hour after hour, hoping to catch sight of you," she said, her voice petulant.

"And I've done the same, Helga--believe me," I replied. "But no matter--we're together now."

I went to the girl and took her in my arms, and for the next several minutes, we stayed there in the shadows, kissing and nuzzling each other. She wore a curious perfume--chypre or patchouli or essence of opium--which stimulated my ardor almost to the point of delirium.

At last, she placed her fingers across my lips and said, "Listen, diamond merchant--come to the house tonight, after Ulla goes to bed. We can slip into my room and have a drink or two. She won't disturb us, because she uses secobarbital and sleeps straight through to morning. Can you do that?"

"Sure," I said eagerly. "What time?"

"Midnight. Knock softly on the front door. Don't ring the bell. You won't be late, will you?"

"No fear, Helga. Midnight and I will arrive at the same time--even if it's raining sharp stones and broken bottles," I answered emphatically.

She laughed. We exchanged a final feverish embrace and then separated--she to go down the alley toward Gloucester Street and I to enter my murky basement.

Was I in love? I don't know. Helga was so beautiful, she hardly seemed real. Being with her was more like a dream than anything else.

I tried to cook my dinner that night, but I only succeeded in metamorphosing a large hamburger into a small charcoal briquette. My mind was adrift in an undulant ocean of enchanting fantasies. The one care I had was the passage of time. As though bent on driving me insane, the clock on my mantel refused to function in a reasonable manner. It ticked rapidly enough, but the hands hardly moved. Six-forty-five endured for 20 minutes, at least, and 7:15 lasted an hour.

Unable to stand it any longer, I dressed in a green-striped sport shirt and my snuff-brown flannel suit and got out of there.

At five to nine, I was dawdling over a sirloin steak in a restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. By ten, I was at the Marengo Bar on Newbury Street, sipping Old Grand-Dad and wondering why my wrist watch lingered so long at each little mark between the numbers. Anticipation was making me slightly manic. I couldn't even sit still on a barstool. At 11, I left the Marengo and went for a walk. I ended my wandering at 20 to 12 on the Commonwealth Avenue mall, on the very same bench I had occupied that day I'd first seen Helga with her sisters. Fortune's wheel seemed to have come full circle.

Yellow light shone through the half-open draperies of the center window of the Ramsay parlor. Despite the snow, I could see into the room. It looked much as it had on the night of my disastrous incursion, except that now there was a tall shadowy form in the window bay. I puzzled over this for a minute before recognizing it as a Christmas tree. Since the holiday wasn't due for several days, it struck me as a bit premature.

Hands deep in my pockets, I stared fixedly at the window. In the end, my perseverance was rewarded. Helga entered the room. Immediately, as though I'd been jabbed with a syringe of adrenaline, my heartbeat accelerated.

From a side table, she picked something up, hung it on the tree and stepped back to appraise the result. Evidently displeased, she quickly detached it and placed it a few inches higher. It was a charming, homey scene.

But out on the bench where I was huddled, conditions weren't quite so snug and cozy. The icy wind slashed my face. My ears and toes caused me pain. I turned up my collar and flapped my arms and stamped my feet, yet I remained chilled to the bone. And when I consulted my watch, I found to my dismay that I had been sitting there only five minutes. How can I survive another quarter of an hour? I asked myself. I'll be stiff and blue.

Surveying the rest of the windows of 548 Commonwealth, I saw they were all dark. No lighted chinks showed anywhere.

A moment later, I got up, shook the snow from my coat and dashed across the street. Helga must have spied me climbing the front steps, because the instant I tapped on the door, it was opened.

"You're too early," she whispered, vexation gleaming in her indigo eyes.

"Does it matter? It's only fifteen minutes," I said, compelling my frozen face to smile. "But if you want me to return to my park bench----"

"No. Come along--but be quiet, for goodness' sake."

Drawing me into the hall by an arm, she shut the door carefully. I took off my topcoat and hung it on a carved oak hatrack. Then she took me into the parlor.

"Why did you come so early, Arnold?" she asked.

Instead of an answer, I gave her a kiss.

"Your lips are like ice," she said, wriggling out of my arms.

"It's a cold night, Helga--and I've been waiting and waiting."

Her expression softened. "All right," she said, "but keep your voice low or you'll spoil everything. Sit somewhere. In a little while, when I'm sure she's asleep, I'll get you a whiskey."

I dropped into one of the hairy-paw-foot Chippendale chairs, crossed my legs and rubbed my hands together. After the mall, the room was like an oven. It was easy to see why. In the fireplace, five or six substantial logs were burning brightly.

Helga resumed decking the evergreen, which was a real monster. Around its base were boxes of Christmas balls and tinsel, and it was from these that she worked.

I followed her with my eyes and as she straightened up, a queer look came over her face. Then I heard a rustling noise and turned my head to see what had caused it. In the doorway to the vestibule, a slender figure stood. It had to be the sister, if only because her features were hidden by a thick veil.

Tilting her head slightly, she said in a stern voice, "I suspected it, and now I know it. Father warned us you were untrustworthy. I saw this man arrive because I kept a vigil. All day it's been obvious that you were up to something."

"Why must you spy?" Helga asked, frowning. "Why can't you leave me alone? Arnold will stay only an hour, I promise. Go back to bed and let me enjoy a little privacy."

The woman at the door, who was clad entirely in black, laughed harshly, puffing the veil out with her breath. "Do you think I'm an idiot, Helga?" she said. "I recognize your Arnold. He's the one I described to the police--the burglar you claimed to have shot at. If he takes a single step toward me, I'll run into the street, screaming. I've known right along that it couldn't have happened without your connivance. Nobody could have opened the cellar door from the outside. You left it unbolted for him."

"Don't talk nonsense," Helga answered sharply, her cheeks flushing. "I hardly know Arnold. He's someone I just met."

"He's your accomplice, that's who he is," said Ulla. "Why did you do it? For the money? When you acted cruel and nasty years ago, Father told us you had a criminal streak, but we didn't really believe him. Even now, it's hard to accept and impossible to understand. Helga, how could you hire this. . . this thug to murder your own sister?"

Events were moving much too fast for me. "What is all this? I've never set foot in this house before tonight," I said. "What is she talking about?"

"Don't get alarmed," Helga replied. "My sister is sick. Her mind is warped. From morning till night, she sits in her room and imagines she's threatened by unknown enemies."

"My mind isn't warped, but yours is. It's you who's mad," the somber apparition declared scornfully. "You let him in to strangle poor Marta. I know. I saw him standing over her. If I hadn't fled and locked my door, he would have killed me as well. I suppose that's why he's here tonight, to finish the job--but he's not going to get the opportunity. I'm not asleep, the way Marta was."

"Why are you saying these things?" I blurted out. "I don't know you and you don't know me. You're making an awful mistake."

"Oh, am I?" Ulla retorted, backing away. "Well, we can settle it easily enough, can't we? I'll phone the police and have them drop by."

"No, don't phone," said Helga quietly. "Don't, Ulla."

For a full five seconds, both of them stood there as motionless as bronze statues--then the older sister whirled around and started for the vestibule, the skirt of her bombazine gown flaring like a bullfighter's cape.

At once, Helga rushed forward. She raised her arm and brought it down sharply. As it descended, I saw a pair of pruning shears in her hand. There was a sickening thump and the veiled woman pitched sideways onto the floor. In the silence that followed, I could hear her gasping painfully. Helga stooped and prepared to strike a second blow.

"Stop!" I shouted, leaping from my chair and grabbing her by the wrist. "What are you doing?"

The girl turned and glared at me, her eyes like blue embers. She then opened her mouth wide and screamed shrilly. Startled, I released her hand. Without a moment's hesitation, she swung the shears in a short arc, hitting me on the head just above my left ear.

Sparks and spangles blossomed in my skull. I tottered back, tripped over the chair leg and fell on my rump. Bemused, I wondered why she had struck me. It seemed so silly. I could vaguely perceive Ulla a couple of yards away, crawling on her hands and knees. A crimson smudge stained the top of her veil. Helga had gone to the Boulle table and was tugging at the drawer.

I shook my head and closed my eyes tightly, hoping to clarify my vision. When I reopened them, Helga was pointing a gun at me--the same nickel-plated revolver I'd seen in the dusky mirror the night of the abortive robbery. I tried to speak, but my vocal cords weren't working any better than the rest of me. At last, I succeeded in uttering a single word. "Why?" I croaked.

She smiled a delicate, mischievous smile and answered, "Someone has to take the blame, diamond merchant."

No sooner had this enigmatic remark left her mouth than there was a peculiar swishing noise at the front of the room. Helga's glance veered in that direction and her beautiful face suddenly became apprehensive.

"You'll drag it down!" she cried. "Let go of it!"

I looked around and saw the giant Christmas tree leaning over dangerously, its ornaments swaying. Ulla, in attempting to regain her feet, had seized a limb and upset its balance. The evergreen started to topple--falling slowly, as though unwilling to be hurried. Still sprawled on the floor, I rolled and scrambled to get out of its path. It landed with a good deal of clatter and the lamp was instantly extinguished. However, the parlor wasn't plunged into total darkness, because of the light from the fireplace. By this, I could still see Helga. The tree's limbs had pinned her against the wall and she appeared stunned.

"Arnold!" she called. "Where are you?"

My groping hands located the Chippendale chair, and with its aid, I managed to stand erect. Unsure of what to do next, I stared across at the girl. The gun was no longer visible, yet that didn't prove it wasn't there.

"Help me!" she said in a tremulous tone.

I took a tentative step forward and, as I did, became conscious of an ominous crackling sound.

"Help me!" she repeated, more loudly than before. "I wasn't going to shoot you--honestly. Pull it away, please. It's burning."

"God!" I exclaimed, aghast.

The tree lay across the hearthstone, and Helga, because she'd been interrupted by her sister's unexpected entrance, hadn't replaced the brass screen. Now the tips of the biggest branches were igniting and sending a trickle of pearly smoke up into the air.

I clutched a thick bough and yanked on it with all my strength. It moved easily, but only because it was bending. The tree itself didn't budge.

"Quick! Get it away!" Helga implored pitiably, as she tried sidling along the wall to reach the safety of the door.

At that instant, however, the crackling changed into an angry drone, and through the green density of pine needles, I saw a flicker of light. Then there was a great whoosh and the whole tree exploded in orange flame.

I recoiled involuntarily. Helga vanished. Where she had been standing a second earlier, there was now a shimmering curtain of fire. Its brilliance almost blinded me and its searing heat drove me back, step by step.

"Helga! Helga!" I cried--but in the roaring tumult, I couldn't even hear my own voice.

The room and its contents--mirrors, paintings, the beehive clock, the credenza, the snuff bottles in their fancy cabinet--all were limned in the garish light.

Suddenly, off to my left, a blazing figure appeared. It might have been a political effigy that a rabid demonstrator had put to the torch--except it was alive. Into the center of the parlor it came, staggering and stumbling, until its progress was blocked by the harpsichord. For a few seconds it wavered there, then it raised its incandescent arms, as though in supplication, and plunged writhing to the floor.

"Ulla," I whispered, stupefied by the sight.

What could I have done to help the woman? Nothing. She was doomed. Had I attempted to smother those flames, both of us would have perished. And to embrace a column of fire demanded a courage I simply didn't possess, in any case.

I looked away. Everywhere, little explosions were occurring. The damask drapes on the windows had become surging fountains of saffron fire. The teapoy flared up and fell to pieces. Gleaming tentacles engulfed the chair-back settee, while tongues of scarlet flame avidly licked the girandoles and oil paintings on the blistering walls. Even the distant end of the room was now alight.

"Run!" I yelled, addressing myself. "Run, run!"

But the route to the vestibule was completely barred by the inferno. Despair began gnawing at my small reserve of confidence. I was on the edge of panic. Unless I got out of there immediately, I knew I'd be cremated--roasted alive like Helga and Ulla.

It was then that I remembered the door to the narrow hall--the hall I had used the night of the burglary. I spun around and, through the billows of slate-gray smoke, dashed to where I thought it was. For once, my luck held. My outstretched hands touched the portieres. Sweeping them aside, I fled into the dark corridor. Seconds later, I tore the basement door open and bounded down the stairs.

While in the basement, I heard--or imagined I heard--heavy footsteps on the floor above my head. Was there someone else up there? I wondered. Was I being chased?

Frantic, I peered through the gloom and spied an oblong of pale light--the alley window. Using this as a reference, I hurried forward, found the back door, threw the bolt and pulled violently on the knob. But it wouldn't open. It had been locked with a key and the key wasn't in the keyhole. Nor were the windows of any use to me, either, because of the iron bars.

I commenced to feel faint. Curlicues of smoke were seeping down from the ceiling like the advance scouts of a ghostly army, and I could again distinguish the deep rumblings of the flames. At any minute, the parlor floor might collapse on top of me, I realized. There was no time to lose.

Banging into a variety of shadowy hard obstacles and shouting curses to prevent my nerves from disintegrating altogether, I struggled toward the game room. There, just visible in the feeble glow from the street lamp, was the sheet of plywood behind which safety lay. From my wallet I got a credit card, slid it into the crack and undid the two hooks. The panel swung open--but what happened after that, I can't recall. Evidently, I had one of my amnesia attacks.

•

I have no idea how much time elapsed while I was blacked out, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. Awareness came to me gradually. I was sobbing and moaning. It was dark. I was stretched out on the kitchen floor. In the distance, the sirens and horns of approaching fire engines were howling and barking. My nostrils were filled with the acrid stench of burned pine resin. It came from my hands, my clothes, my hair. Even the warm tears that trickled down my face seemed to exude this pungent odor.

Nearer and nearer, the engines drew--wailing, screeching, hooting. It sounded as if there were hundreds of them. I pressed my hot forehead against the cold linoleum and went on weeping. Out in the alley, there were bursts of excited shouting.

Then the apparatus arrived and the uproar increased. Air brakes hissed, powerful engines growled and coughed, gears shifted gratingly, pumps began to throb.

A searchlight swept past the window, illuminating the kitchen for an instant. I sat up, sighed wearily and then got to my feet.

"Did I close the panel?" I asked the darkness.

Shuffling like an old man, I went into the bedroom. The section of wainscoting was hanging by a single screw. I must have kicked it open. On my knees, I crept to the far end of the tunnel, feeling around with my hands. The blanket was fixed securely in place and, beneath it, the piece of plywood was shut and hooked. I backed out. From my tool chest I got a screwdriver and, with it, refastened the wainscoting.

"Not my fault," I said miserably. "An accident. What could I do? They were burned to cinders. Helga invited me there. I didn't break in--not this time. But she had the pistol and tried to shoot me again. They were crazy, the two of them. I had no chance to save their lives, though. Impossible. The tree went up in seconds. A grisly accident. What could I do? I was lucky to escape myself."

In the alley, someone was yelling commands through a bullhorn. I pushed myself from the chair, went to the kitchen window and peeked between the burlap curtains. At first, it appeared that the houses opposite were on fire, too, but then I realized the lurid glare in their windows was only a reflection of the holocaust next door.

Huge red trucks crowded the narrow lane. Firemen in helmets, rubber coats and high boots were everywhere. The restless gleam of the fire threw an eerie cast over the whole scene.

"Have to clean up," I murmured. "If they come and question me, I'll have to say I was sleeping. I'll pretend total ignorance. Any other course would be dangerous."

Undressing as I went, I hurried to the bathroom. A glance in the mirror showed me an anxious face, black with soot that was streaked by tears. I filled the basin and washed thoroughly, scrubbing my grimy hands with a nailbrush. Then, returning to the bedroom, I put on pajamas and lit the lamp. My nerves were steadier but far from calm.

As I was mussing the sheets and blankets to make the bed look slept in, there was an urgent knock at the door. I opened it at once and was confronted by Mrs. Dunlap in tubular curlers, a kimono and a chinchilla coat. Her myopic eyes appeared ready to pop out of their sockets.

"We have to evacuate," she exclaimed, without salutation. "They insist we move to the next building--to five-forty-four. They say the roof might catch fire, and if that happens, I don't know what I'll do. My insurance won't cover the loss--never. Miss Wentworth-Smith told me the walls in her room are sizzling hot. It's dreadful. But I'm glad you're awake, Mr. Hopkins. I almost forgot you were down here. Wear a coat, all righty? If five-forty-four is threatened, I suppose they'll make us go out into the blizzard."

While the landlady continued to chatter wildly, I got my shoes back on and donned a raincoat--the only coat I had left. I then turned the light off and the two of us trudged upstairs.

In the foyer, firemen were wandering about, creating new designs on the old carpets with their dirty boots. Rita, the maid, could be seen hustling a flock of guests down a hall toward the adjoining building. It was fortunate the place consisted of two separate structures. If it hadn't, they would have needed a fleet of ambulances to transfer all those doddering women to safety. I went out to the street.

Roiling smoke obscured the façade of the Ramsay house, yet through this pall, I could see flames spurting from the third-floor windows. I watched, mesmerized. Aloft on the aerial ladders, red-faced firemen poured streams of silvery water into the seething openings. Their efforts were apparently having an effect. Brief glimpses of the lower part of the building showed me that the blaze was virtually extinguished there. The spacious high-ceilinged parlor, so exquisite only an hour earlier, was now a black smoldering cavern. All the lovely objects were gone--reduced to lumps of molten metal or glass and mounds of sodden ashes.

Beside me, a man in an astrakhan hat remarked conversationally, "They found two bodies in the place. Couple of women. An awful way to go, isn't it?"

I shuddered and made no reply.

•

The fire never did spread to Mrs. Dunlap's property; but even so, none of us got any sleep that night.

Near noon, dog-tired, I went downstairs to bed, where I slept like a man in a coma for six solid hours. Yet when I woke up, I felt awful. Back between the sheets I crawled.

At midnight, I awakened again. My head was alive with ugly images and strange forebodings. Utterly convinced that a veiled figure was lurking by the chest of drawers, I lay quivering on the lumpy mattress for what seemed an hour. Of course, when I eventually summoned the courage to switch on the lamp, I saw nothing--no gloating specters, no gibbering fiends. Nevertheless, it took a long while for me to get back to sleep.

The whole of the following day, I remained in bed, though there were many things I should have been attending to. More important than any business appointments was the necessity to repair the brick wall behind the wainscoting. Once the workmen started clearing the debris next door, they were sure to uncover the hole--and when they did, I would be in big trouble.

But I was too weak to sit up in bed, let alone undertake manual labor. I had a raging fever--probably contracted the night of the disaster, while I was standing in the snowstorm in my flimsy raincoat. One minute I'd be flushed and burning and the next I'd be chilled to the marrow of my bones. Mentally I wasn't right, either, because my mood alternated between unpleasant extremes--such as apathy and terror.

By evening, I was a little better, though, and after ten hours of sleep that night, I woke up feeling almost well again. Listening to the radio, I learned it was the 24th of December--Christmas Eve.

At 12:30, Rita knocked on my door and announced that there was a gentleman to see me.

Who could it be? I wondered, instantly frightened. A gentleman? In a blue uniform, perhaps. But cops seldom traveled alone. They usually came in pairs--like famine and plague, or fear and loathing.

With considerable reluctance, I opened the door. There, in a form-fitting gray-serge overcoat that even a Spanish diplomat might have envied, was Maurice Fitzjames.

"Hello," he said.

I released a pent-up breath and mumbled a greeting. Then I thanked the maid, showed my guest into the living room and shut the door tightly.

"How did you find me?" I asked. "I never told you I was here."

"No, you didn't. Thanks a lot," he answered, unbuttoning his coat and sitting in an armchair. "After phoning that other place about a hundred times and never catching you in, I finally concluded you were hiding because you owed somebody a bundle of money."

"But how did you know I was here, Maurice?"

"I didn't--not for certain. I took a gamble. Back when we were planning the job, you mentioned the owner of this house was a friend of yours--and you said she rented furnished rooms. So I gave it a try. It doesn't cost anything to knock on a front door and ask a couple of questions. Hey--are you in debt to the Mafia, Arnold? Is that why you're living in this snake pit? Or did you move here to take another whack at the gold mine next door--without bothering to consult me, your partner?"

"On your way in, partner, did you happen to notice that gold mine?" I asked him.

"Yes, I noticed it--and I read a newspaper story about it, also. It ruined my day," he retorted sulkily. "All that treasure--gone up in smoke. I begged you to go in there a second time, but you wouldn't do it, would you? You let yourself be scared off. Now it's too late."

"That was a spooky house, Maurice. I think it had a hoodoo on it."

"Hoodoo, hell! You blew a perfect setup. And then that girl getting strangled, however it happened, really put whipped cream and a cherry on the whole mess. We should have cleared ten to fifteen grand apiece."

"I know--it's a very sad story," I said. "But I've heard it from you before. Don't let it become an obsession."

He removed his sunglasses and eyed me speculatively. "Of course, the operation wasn't a complete failure," he commented. "You did bag the painting."

I sat wearily on the couch and leaned my head back against a cushion. "That's right," I said.

"You still have it, don't you?" he inquired.

I nodded.

"Here?" he asked.

"No, Maurice. Is that why you came? I suppose with the last two Ramsay sisters dead, you've decided it's safe to peddle that picture--and safe to be associated with me again."

He smiled, his eyes like decimal points, then shrugged. "You have to admit, Arnold, it does remove some of the risks. But why be bitter? The fact is I've established contact with a dealer in Dublin--a nice, discreet man who does business with other nice, discreet people in various parts of the world. He offered to help us out."

"Very kind of him," I said dryly. "How much does his help amount to--in dollars and cents?"

"He'll pay five thousand--twenty-five hundred for you, twenty-five hundred for me."

"You must think I'm mentally deficient. Twenty-five-hundred dollars," I said in disgust. "This man's a dealer? What does he deal in--rags and bottles? The painting is valued at more than a hundred thousand. If he sells it for only a third of that price, he's still robbing us blind. Listen, the last time we discussed this--the time you didn't want to know me--I was asking ten grand. Now, because the risks have diminished, I want fifteen."

"Oh, come on, Arnold! Be reasonable," my cousin exclaimed, jiggling his sunglasses in annoyance. "Five thousand is good money for an item as hot as that painting is. The guy can't move it freely. He can't show it to auctioneers or museums or fancy galleries or rich collectors. He has to peddle it from under his coat. I thought you'd be happy. I thought I was bringing you glad tidings for Christmas. The painting's valuable only if you've got an outlet. To you personally, it's worthless--worse than worthless. If you get caught with it in your possession, the judge will send you up for fifty years. So what do you say? Twenty-five hundred. It's money for moonbeams."

"Fifteen thousand," I repeated stolidly. "And that's for me alone, Maurice. Your share will be whatever you can hustle over the fifteen."

He stood. "I won't argue. I know when I'm licked," he said resignedly. "Hey--get me a glass of water, will you? I've talked myself dry--and you never offer a person a drink or anything."

"This isn't the Holiday Inn," I told him, but I got up and went out to the kitchen.

When I returned, he was buttoning his gray-serge coat and contemplating the Modigliani reproduction with obvious distaste. After drinking the water, he set the glass on the coffee table, asked me to keep in touch and then departed. I was happy to see him go.

•

It's true what psychiatrists preach about the unconscious mind. It does continue to labor while the rest of you is busy grappling with other problems. Mine must have been churning furiously, because the minute I lay down to take a nap, I was assailed by a host of ideas. Instead of sleeping, therefore, I carried on a gloomy conversation with myself like a character in an Elizabethan tragedy.

What produced this cerebral activity? I suppose it was Maurice's mentioning the oil painting and the bungled burglary. Not that I hadn't done a great deal of pondering and soul-searching about the Ramsays already--I had, indeed--yet rational explanations still eluded me. When I told my cousin I thought the house had a jinx on it, I was serious. But perhaps the eerie aura that seemed to fill those huge, magnificent rooms belonged less to the house itself than to the people who lived in it.

Why had Helga invited me there that night? Was it really for an evening of romance? Is that why she resented Ulla's unexpected appearance? Or were Helga's plans more sinister? The revolver had been surprisingly handy. And hitting Ulla with the shears--that was a drastic reaction to an intrusion. Unaccountable behavior. If I hadn't stopped her from striking again, she might have killed her sister before my eyes. And she had clouted me, too. I still had a bump over my ear.

Rolling to a new position on my wretched bed, I made an effort to switch off the soliloquy. It failed. The questions kept forming faster than ever. Was Helga a homicidal maniac? Why had she shot at me the night of the burglary? I'd begged her not to, yet she had pulled the trigger. Given those circumstances, was that a normal reaction? I didn't think it could be. Beautiful as the girl had been, she must have had a loose cog somewhere. That afternoon in the pub, her manner had appeared a trifle quirky--all that talk about her family. It was as if she'd been offering me an explanation--but an explanation of what? And afterward, I didn't see her for a couple of weeks. Peculiar. Then, out of the blue, came that urgent invitation. Why? What was Ulla's role in the charade? She really did think I strangled Marta. Was it true? Maybe. Maybe the Ramsays were sane and I was the lunatic. Maybe, in some way, I'd been responsible for the fire, too, and had contrived a cover story to placate my conscience.

And recently, I'd been part of a lot of strange goings on. Tyrone Crabtree had tried to kill me--and so had the Julians, when I was on the gangplank. Poor Hogan Guilfoyle had died because of my treachery. Then there was the Devil. And Wilfred Sloan, dropping dead at the wheel of his Lincoln 12 hours before he was due to pay me $7000.

Faster and faster, I paced the floor. My brain seemed ready to boil over. What were the answers to all these questions? If I wasn't crazy yet, it was only a matter of time before I would be.

At this crucial point in my frenzied cogitations, a ray of light suddenly penetrated the murky mists that surrounded me. Up from my unconscious came a vital recollection--a scrap of hard, tangible evidence. How could Ulla have seen me strangle Marta? How could she have seen me in Marta's bedroom? Throughout the burglary, I had worn that awful stocking mask--and it was absolutely inconceivable that I would have removed it, murdered the girl and pulled it back on again. Even a madman wouldn't have behaved quite as erratically as that.

I had to talk to somebody. The logical person was Barney, and the sooner I spoke to him, the better.

I put my shoes on and donned a sweater, my jacket and the raincoat; but when I looked for my keys, they weren't on the table by the door or in any of my pockets. Almost immediately, I realized where they had gone. Maurice. He was the only person who could have taken them. But what did he want with my keys?

Then I remembered the painting--and his casual question, "Do you have it here?"

"The bastard's gone to Bay State Road!" I wailed. "And he'll tear the place apart until he finds it."

Without keys, I couldn't even use my car. I had to grab a taxi. Though there was slush on the streets, we made good time. At stop lights, the driver stared at me in his rearview mirror, because I was mumbling to myself like a loony. As we halted in front of my house, I noticed a bunch of people on the corner. Fresh presentiments rushed into my brain, mingling with those that were there already.

"What now?" I whispered.

I overpaid the cabby and hurried toward the crowd. A police car was parked by the curb, its radio croaking staccato messages. As I drew near, I saw a trickle of blood in a crack in the sidewalk. It ran from the center of the mob to the base of a fire hydrant, where it formed a small, scarlet puddle. Before going on, I paused and gulped some air. Then a bystander left, and through the resulting gap, I glimpsed Maurice sprawled on the pavement. He was in his shirt sleeves and his torso looked unnaturally flat. His eyes were wide-open, but it was obvious from his crushed skull that he wasn't seeing anything. The expression on his rigid face was one of resentment. I gulped more air.

"Both dead?" a man to my right asked in a hushed voice.

"Sure," another man replied. "They must've died the instant they hit the ground. Five stories, they dropped. That ain't the same as falling off a barstool."

I elbowed my way forward, craning my neck to see. A dozen feet from where Maurice lay, Tyrone Crabtree was stretched out on his back. Rosettes of splattered blood made a red wreath around his hulking body. His bullethead was caved in on one side, so that it resembled a large, partially deflated ball. Flowing sluggishly from his nostrils down to his chin was a crooked, glistening rivulet of gore.

"The big guy tried to burgle an apartment up there and the small guy caught him," a woman behind me declared. "There was a battle and the two of them went through the window."

I could see Mr. Chernyshevski, the building superintendent, talking to a stocky policeman, who was scribbling in a notebook. Then my eyes returned to Maurice and I spotted what I hadn't spotted before. Beneath my cousin's out-flung left arm was the little oil painting.

My legs began to tremble. I lowered my head, raised my coat collar and started backing out of the crowd.

•

I headed for Barney Slocum's.

"How you doing, Arnold?" he said. "You look upset about something. Can I get you a drink?"

"A drink--yes. That's what I need," I answered gratefully, dropping exhausted into an easy chair.

He went out of the room, and when he returned, he had a bottle of Courvoisier and two snifters. As soon as he stopped pouring, I drank. It was powerful stuff and seemed to help my nerves.

"Maurice is dead," I announced.

"Maurice Fitzjames?" he asked, looking at me sharply.

"Yes. He's dead, Barney."

"But I was talking to him only yesterday in Brookline. I sold him an Imari bowl," Barney said in a shocked tone.

"I hope you got paid, because if you didn't, you're out of luck," I said.

"He gave me cash. When did it happen?"

"Just this afternoon."

Then, after another sip of brandy, I told him the whole story from the very beginning. The words gushed from my mouth like soda water from a spigot--my cousin's proposition, the Ramsay house and the three sisters, how I rented the basement apartment and broke through the wall, how I sneaked in and took the painting and how I almost got shot but managed to escape in the dark.

Barney grimaced, licked his lips and said, "A girl got strangled on that job. I read about it in the Record."

"True," I answered promptly. "I wasn't the party responsible, though. For a while, I thought I might have killed her without remembering it--during one of my fits of amnesia--but now I'm convinced it never happened that way."

"So who did it, then?"

"I don't know, Barn--I don't know. The Ramsays were weird people and they were rich--two million dollars rich. When the parents died, the oldest sister inherited the entire estate and the younger girls were left with nothing. Money and murder aren't exactly strangers to each other in this world."

I went on with my narrative, relating the circumstances of my meeting Helga in the alley, of our date at the pub and of our second encounter and her ardent invitation to the house. Then I described the mad sequence of events after my arrival and gave a vivid account of the fire and the incineration of the sisters.

"Jesus!" Barney said, tugging nervously on his black beard.

Next, I explained how I had caught cold standing in the snow, how Maurice had visited me and how he had stolen my keys. At that point, I had to introduce the Crabtrees. I told of the intercepted phone call at Guilfoyle's, of the old lady's slick attempt to swindle me and of my life-and-death struggle with Tyrone on the rooftop.

"Jesus!" Barney repeated, his eyes wide.

"There's more," I said, and proceeded to give him a fast résumé of the gruesome scene I'd just witnessed on Bay State Road.

After I finished, neither of us spoke for at least a minute. I drank my brandy while Barney sat down on a turquoise-brocade upholstered chair and shook his head like a man who'd been hit with a blackjack. Eventually, he moaned a couple of times and then remarked, "You're in a real hornet's-nest situation, Arnold. It's practically a debacle."

"A debacle? It's the end of the world," I said. "Maurice dashed over to my apartment to snatch that oil painting, but he was caught by Tyrone, who thought he was me. The two of them fought and went out the window together. I imagine Maurice pulled one of his karate tricks at the last moment--something that caused Tyrone to lose his balance. Considering what a monster the crazy bastard was, that's the only explanation. And my cousin probably had the painting in his hand when he was attacked. And when the cops identify the painting, they're going to want to talk to me. Only I'm not going to be available. I'm heading for Texas or California or western Canada. The trouble is, Barney, all my money is in the bank in New Hampshire, and tomorrow's Christmas. I can't go back to the basement apartment, so for a day or two, I need a place to hole up."

"You can stay here," said Barney. "You can use my wife's room, because she's in Nassau for the holidays. Anyhow, Arnold, you can't get your funds out of that bank--never in a million years. The police aren't feeble-minded, you know. If you try drawing money out of your account, the Boston dicks will be waiting for you. No, it's better you don't make any sudden, irrational movements like that. I want to help you, but naturally. I don't want to get nailed for harboring a fugitive or for being an accessory."

"Thanks, Barney. I appreciate your kindness. Still, I can't remain here forever. I've got to get out while the getting's good."

Stroking his beard like a Biblical patriarch, he said, "Play it cool. Hopefully, we'll find a viable solution. Arnold, that photo in the Record--when I saw it, it gave me a jolt."

"Helga's picture? Why?" I asked.

"Because she looked familiar. Faces as pretty as that you don't forget easy. I remembered seeing her a week earlier with a guy I knew, at Suffolk Downs. The two of them were acting very lovey-dovey that day: otherwise, I might've gone over and said hello. It was the first time I ever saw anybody feeling up a woman at the five-dollar window. Usually, horse players are too busy for such extracurricular activities. The guy, by the way, was Maurice Fitzjames."

"You saw my cousin with Helga?"

"Right--with the doll who tried to shoot you. A funny coincidence, ain't it? And after I read the story under the picture, it didn't take me long to dope out that you were probably the burglar in the case. For a month, Maurice had been questioning me--wanting to know your capabilities in that line of work--and though I wasn't keen on your doing jobs for him, I had to admit you were a first-class operator."

"Maurice with Helga," I said, stunned. "The bastard."

"So those were my conclusions," Barney went on smugly. "But I was mystified, also. Why should that girl get strangled? And why should Maurice's friend fire a gun at you? Knowing what a nonviolent type you are, none of it made much sense."

"Let me think. I had some suspicions, only they were too vague. Let me think, Barney. Let me think."

"Go ahead. The whole enterprise gave off an aroma. It had to be phony--a fancy scam Maurice was working. I guessed it was an insurance swindle him and this ritzy broad were conspiring on--because of the very valuable painting--and that it went haywire somewhere. Whatever the gimmick was, though, it smelled putrid--and very hazardous, too."

I clutched my head in both hands. "Maurice and Helga," I muttered. "Sure--and Ulla thought it was me."

"You're white as a sheet," said Barney, getting up to pour more Courvoisier in my glass. "I figured you didn't know what you were involved . in, Arnold. You're a different caliber of guy from your cousin--and always have been. I don't want to knock a dead man, but he had an inclination to be ruthless--if you get what I mean."

"Barney, they planned it together," I said, as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. "They planned it and cast me as the scapegoat. Do you understand? The night of the fire, Helga told me I had to take the blame and that was why she was going to shoot me."

"The blame for what? The robbery? How would that be profitable to them? If you're laying there dead, they couldn't say you stole anything, could they?"

"No, but the whole robbery was only a blind. Maurice set me up. He got me to break into the house--and, while I was there, he intended to murder the other two sisters."

Barney's eyes registered bewilderment. "For what reason, exactly?" he asked.

"Money, money, money. Can't you see? If Helga was the sole survivor, she'd inherit the family fortune--and then she and Maurice could get married and live happily ever after."

"Jesus, what a finagler!"

"Yes, except he muffed it," I said with satisfaction. "The oldest sister escaped and locked herself in her room, which left them with the job half done. She was the girl who claimed to have seen me strangle Marta, the one who died--but I was wearing a stocking mask. How could she identify me? The man she actually saw was Maurice. He did it, Barney. Maurice was in the house upstairs all the time I was wandering around downstairs. And Helga was downstairs, too--waiting for me with a loaded revolver. He kills the women and she kills me. Then he leaves and she phones the cops, who come and find an open-and-shut case of murder by an intruder who was shot dead by one of his intended victims. Beautiful. The dirty bastards. My own cousin--he tried to destroy me. And that was why he had to know the precise time I was sneaking into the house. We were like brothers--like twins--and he was sending me to be slaughtered."

"Very immoral and unscrupulous," said Barney reprovingly. "What happened afterward, though? They must have been pretty shook when you got away and they were left with a corpse on their hands."

"I bet they were. Under those circumstances, who wouldn't be? But you have to give them credit, because they didn't lose their heads. They brazened it out. Helga told the cops the originally planned story--that she fired at a burglar--and Ulla, the older sister, couldn't contradict it, since she had no way of knowing what was really going on. Still, she was suspicious, and said as much the night of the fire. No, Barney--the only worm in the apple was me. I knew a lot more than Ulla. But Cousin Maurice got around that difficulty by using some clever con. First, to put me on the defensive, he criticized my handling of the job. Then he raised the matter of my mental blackouts to throw a smoke screen around the murder and scare the hell out of me. For a couple of weeks, Maurice avoided me, not wanting to be implicated; but after things got quiet again, he tried to talk me into a second attempt on the house, so he and Helga could complete their treacherous enterprise. I wouldn't go for it, though."

"Yeah," said Barney, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. "And when he saw that, he executed the next logical movement. He told the girl to make a play for you--right?"

"Right. Like a dope, I fell for it, too. She said come to the house and come I did. Maurice must have been upstairs waiting, the same as before. Sure, sure. After the fire started and I was in the cellar. I heard those heavy footsteps on the floor above my head. It was him, running for his life. They figured to kill Ulla and me and have Helga tell the cops that I'd tried to rob the place a second time. She probably would have led them to the hole in the wall, too, because she and Maurice knew about it by then. If they hadn't known, he couldn't have found me so easily when he came looking for the oil painting. And the painting was his last chance to make a profit on the whole disastrous scheme."

I picked up the snifter and had another drink of brandy. Barney glanced at me uneasily.

"Ulla frustrated their second performance by being suspicious and staying awake, I suppose. My early arrival didn't help the plot, either. A tragedy of errors. That night, I couldn't grasp it all--couldn't understand why Ulla accused Helga of hiring me to commit the murder. Everything was jumbled in my mind. But Helga had screamed when I grabbed her arm, which must have been a signal to Maurice upstairs that complications had developed. Then the tree fell over . . . and the room dissolved in fire."

Suddenly, I was so fatigued I could scarcely sit erect. My eyelids were heavy, my arms and legs leaden. I slumped in the chair and asked feebly, "How could they do it to me, Barney? Did Maurice hate me--or did he think it was only another business deal?"

"Who can say, Arnold? Nobody. Human nature is a very unreliable thing," answered Barney sententiously. "Anyway, they're both dead now and you're still alive--so why worry about it?"

•

I slept restlessly for three hours, as dreams galloped through my brain. In one, I was standing before a building--a skyscraper--and people I knew kept tumbling out of the windows. Falling, they seemed frighteningly real, but when they hit the ground, they all shattered into glittering white fragments. Then I recognized that they were made of ivory--like netsukes.

At a quarter to seven in the evening, I went back downstairs and found Barney sitting alone in the kitchen, eating Chinese food. "You look better. Help yourself to some dinner," he said genially.

I joined him and began eating.

"While you were sleeping, I went to your apartment house to see what was happening," he said.

"Were the bodies still there?" I asked.

"Nah, but I saw blood on the sidewalk. The janitor was hosing it down. We had a conversation, him and me. I learned an interesting detail."

"What was that, Barney?"

"Well, I inquired as to who the victims were, and the man told me he only knew one of them--tenant of his named Arnold Hopkins."

"He thought Maurice was me?"

"Yeah. Why shouldn't he? After all, the stiff looks like Arnold Hopkins and it fell from Arnold Hopkins' window. He doesn't know Maurice, does he?"

"No," I replied, and shoveled a forkful of food into my mouth.

"So there you are." said Barney. "Afterward, I phoned the cops and asked a few innocent questions. I made believe I was a neighbor. Gave them a phony name. I asked how Arnold Hopkins was and could they tell me the hospital he was in. They told me Arnold Hopkins was dead on arrival."

"But that's crazy. What about his wallet--his driver's license and credit cards?"

"They mustn't have the wallet, Arnold. You mentioned he was lying on the ground in his shirt sleeves, didn't you? Yeah, you did--and that's a significant element, because Maurice always carried his billfold in his jacket. Remember? Without the jacket, the police got no identification--except the janitor. I figure Maurice took his jacket off while he was searching for the picture--took it off and draped it on a chair or hung it in the closet, maybe. The wallet must still be there."

I stopped eating. "Sooner or later, they'll discover their mistake," I said.

"How? The only person who can prove that cadaver isn't Arnold Hopkins is your dentist--and the cops have no reason whatever to check with him. Nah, they're certain it's you--which opens up some interesting avenues of possibility."

"It sure does," I replied thoughtfully. "If they think I'm dead, they won't be looking for me. I can leave without worrying and start a whole new life."

Barney Slocum gave me a sly, sidelong glance. "Why leave?" he asked.

"Because if I stay, someone will recognize me--that's why."

"Not if you become Maurice Fitzjames," he said.

"Are you kidding, Barney? No. No, thanks. I've had enough adventures to last me for a while. This isn't the movies. A masquerade like that would never work."

"I disagree, Arnold. If we formulate a careful plan of action, I'm positive you can bring it off. You just don't fully realize the close resemblance there is between you and your cousin. Believe me, it's uncanny."

"Your idea is uncanny," I declared. "You forget my nerves are all shot. I can't even get a decent night's sleep, so how am I going to cope with a complicated impersonation? The pressure would be tremendous."

"What pressure? What complications? Once you slip a pair of those wraparound sunglasses on, you'll be home free. This is a chance-of-a-lifetime situation."

"It isn't that simple, Barney," I protested. "There's the painting and the strangled girl to consider. Anyone associated with Arnold Hopkins is going to be interviewed by the homicide squad, and I couldn't stand up under a grilling."

"They won't bother you," said Barney confidently. "You and Maurice didn't do much business together. Anyhow, I'm pretty sure they don't even know the painting is stolen property yet. The cop on the phone wasn't interested in me at all--and he certainly would have been if he knew about Arnold Hopkins' connection with a murder and a stolen masterpiece. They don't know, and maybe they never will know. Besides you and those dead girls, who could identify that picture? Probably just a handful of relatives who live in St. Louis or Denver or someplace. To tell the truth, Arnold, it wouldn't surprise me if the painting weren't even in the cops' possession. A bystander might have glommed it. Or maybe it got left on the sidewalk and a little old lady picked it up and took it home to stick on her bureau. Funny incidents happen, you know."

I closed my eyes and tried to think. "One slip, Barney, and they'd have me cold. I'd be blamed for everything--all the way back to the Boston Massacre."

"You're too negative," he answered, pointing an egg roll at me. "What you should do is get those sunglasses, go to Berkeley Street and say you heard your cousin was killed. The police won't give you a hard time. They'll be glad if a next of kin takes the body off their hands."

"Why would I have to do that?" I asked, horrified at the prospect. "The minute I walk in, they'11 notice the resemblance between us."

"No they won't. You'll be wearing a hat and a big woolly scarf, plus the dark glasses. Anyhow, what with one thing and another, Maurice ain't going to be in the best of condition, is he? As regard to why you have to do it, Arnold, it's because that way you can claim his belongings--especially the keys to his shop and his apartment. Probably your keys will be there, too, and if you get them, you give them to me and I'll dash over to Bay State Road and collect that jacket with his wallet--after which we'll have the entire operation stabilized. There's an acquaintance of mine who can copy signatures like a Xerox. With your face, cashing this guy's checks at Maurice's bank will be mere child's play. And the store in Brookline is a gold mine. I figure Maurice's stock alone will run fifty grand minimum, So what do you say? We could split the melon down the middle."

"It's a mouth-watering proposition," I admitted. "OK, Barn, I'll try it--but if things start going wrong, I'll be off like a shot."

"Don't worry. We'll do marvelous," he replied, caressing his black beard and grinning. "Nobody will get wise--ever. Right, Maurice?"

"Right," I said, not too confidently.

•

Wearing huge sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, I went to the city mortuary on Massachusetts Avenue the day after Christmas, identified my cousin's broken body as my own, arranged for his burial and returned to Barney's house on Joy Street with all the keys. No difficulties arose. That same morning, I got a four-dollar razor haircut on Tremont Street, while my coconspirator hustled over to Bay State Road and picked up the jacket and the wallet. My apartment was a shambles, Barney said--drawers dumped, furniture dismantled, upholstery slashed--but Maurice had fastidiously hung his coat in the hall closet.

In the afternoon, the two of us drove to Brookline and entered the dead man's five-room flat, where we found checkbooks, savings-bank passbooks, some municipal bonds and a satin-lined box of 19th Century Austrian gold ducats. That was three weeks ago. So far, we've realized close to $40,000 on these items, and we haven't cashed the bonds yet.

I've been running Maurice's store, too. In my stylish haircut, dark glasses and fashionable suits, I'm his mirror image. No one seems to suspect a thing. At first, I pretended to have a bad head cold and spoke rarely, but now my self-assurance is such that I'm able to act quite naturally. There have actually been moments when I felt I was Maurice Fitzjames--loony as that may sound.

Barney was right; the store is a gold mine. His share of the proceeds has been so good, he's seriously thinking of divorcing his rich wife and marrying a 22-year-old model he knows from Ipswich.

No mention of the oil painting appeared in any of the newspaper accounts of the deaths of Maurice and Tyrone. Probably, the cops didn't expect to find a valuable picture in that neighborhood and have tossed it away--just as Barney said they might. I haven't received any visits from them, either.

Nevertheless, I can't claim to be happy. Yesterday, I had an amnesia attack that lasted 25 minutes. I often smell smoke, too--burning pine needles. At night, when it happens. I leap out of bed in terror.

•

On Friday, as I was leaving a Brattle Street coffee shop, I saw the Devil and Xochimilco. They were strolling along in the winter sunshine. Merendaro, therefore, isn't in a sanitarium--and Xochimilco lied to me. I once read somewhere that devils speak the truth only when they're sure you won't believe them.

Is the Devil really the Devil? I wonder. Hogan Guilfoyle signed a contract with him--and, not long after, he died. Then I signed one, and what happened? I was shot at, almost thrown off a roof and narrowly missed being burned alive. Yes--and Maurice, my double, was killed.

There's also the case of Wilfred Sloan, the English Oriental dealer. When he bought my netsukes, he mentioned borrowing money from a crazy Latin American who refused repayment, which got him in trouble with the income-tax people. Could that Latin American be the Devil? I can't ask Sloan now. Like Guilfoyle, he's dead.

Perhaps none of these weird ideas would have occurred to me if I hadn't been present at that hellish fire on Commonwealth Avenue. Any aberrations I'm experiencing were born there. Why? Because when Ulla Ramsay came staggering toward me enveloped in flame, her burning veil disintegrated and I caught a glimpse of her face. Admittedly, I was befuddled with horror, and there was no shortage of smoke and glare for the creation of optical illusions, yet I'm absolutely certain the features I saw at that moment were those of Felix Merendaro--and he was smiling at me. Even now. I can conjure up in my mind that brown oval countenance with its blissful expression. While I live, I'm not likely ever to forget it, either.

Of course, it's still possible it wasn't the Mexican at all--that I'm really only insane. But if it was him, what can I do? Is the situation hopeless? Not necessarily. Maybe, like everybody else, he believes I'm dead. Or, barring that, maybe one day I'll come across a Jonathan Wild tea towel--the rarest and most precious kind--and the Devil and I can negotiate a whole new deal.

This is the conclusion of "The Bric-a-Brac Man."