Black Cat Weekly #35

DEATH OF A BIBLE SALESMAN, by Sarah R. Shaber-1

DEATH OF A BIBLE SALESMAN,

by Sarah R. ShaberThe Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

short stories authors and editors in the mystery

field, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

I was closest to the door when the bell rang, so naturally I was the one who opened it.

“Are you the lady of the house?” the man asked. He was a small person. I had to look down to speak to him.

“No,” I said, “I’m one of her boarders. My name is Louise Pearlie. You want Mrs. Phoebe Holcombe.”

“May I speak to her?” he asked. “If she’s not too, well, distressed.”

Distressed? What was the man talking about?

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Hiram King.” He removed his black fedora, revealing slicked-down hair with thick comb marks running through it, and held the hat respectfully over his chest. His head was slightly bowed, like an undertaker welcoming mourners to a wake. Even though today was Saturday he wore a natty black suit and tie, which just reinforced his ghoulish image.

“I hate to intrude at such a sad time,” he said, “but I think Mrs. Holcombe would want to see me.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. The saddest we’d been today was when the radio in the lounge blew a tube and we realized we couldn’t listen to Ellery Queen or the Grand Ole Opry tonight.

“I’m sorry, she’s not in,” I said. Phoebe and Dellaphine, our colored cook, had gone to the market armed with our weekly ration stamps and Betty Crocker’s wartime cookbook. “Can I take a message for her?”

“Could I just come inside for a minute?”

“No,” I said, eager to be shed of him, “just tell me what you want.”

“Well,” King said, placing his hat back on his head so he could lift his briefcase with both hands and click it open facing me. Inside was a handsome leather Bible cradled in red velvet.

“No,” I said, “no, no! We’re not buying any Bibles. We have plenty. Go away, please.”

“You don’t understand,” King said. “This isn’t just any Bible. Mrs. Holcombe’s late son purchased this for her as a gift.”

For a second my heart clutched. Had something happened to Tom? Last we heard, and Phoebe got a letter from him yesterday, Tom was behind the lines in the Pacific, guarding an island stocked with supplies for a destroyer group scheduled to dock and refit. And Milt had been home for weeks now.

Then I understood what had happened. Phoebe’s home was a row house on I Street a couple of blocks south of Dupont Circle. The house on the east side of hers, owned by the Roberts family, was identical to hers, down to the brick and trim color. The front windows met together in the center of the facade. The two houses were often mistaken for one large home. The Roberts’ front window had displayed a gold star for two weeks now. Mark Roberts had died when the Allied troops landed in Salerno.

Mr. King had come to the wrong door, and he was about the pull a nasty wartime scam on the Roberts family. I grabbed King’s arm.

“You little drip!” I said. “Let me guess. The soldier who bought this Bible for his mother owed money on it, didn’t he, and you’re going to give her the chance to pay that off so that she can treasure his last gift to her.”

King pulled his arm away from me and snapped the case shut.

“I’m calling the police,” I said.

“Don’t bother,” said Milt behind me.

He must have heard the last few sentences of my conversation with King. Milt shoved his way past me, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes narrowed, his only hand reaching for King’s throat. King turned to run. He didn’t get far before Milt was on him, grabbing him by the neck and shoving him to the sidewalk. Kneeling over King he struck him squarely in the face and pulled his fist back, ready for another punch.

“Stop it, Milt!” I screamed.

Milt slammed his fist into King’s face again, and blood spurted from King’s nose. Milt had come back from the Pacific with one arm, a drinking problem, and an awful temper. I thought he might kill the man. I grabbed his arm, but he was too strong for me and tore loose, again drawing back to belt King.

“Henry!” I shouted. “Henry, help!”

I could hear Henry Post, our male boarder, clatter down the steps behind me. Between the two of us we dragged Milt off the bloodied Bible salesman. Henry held on to Milt’s arm while I gripped his belt so he couldn’t attack the man again. King climbed to his feet, and without saying a word to us, staggered down our walkway and out into the street, wiping blood from his face with a handkerchief.

“You should have let me hit him again,” Milt said, shaking loose from us.

“He thought this was the Roberts’ home,” I said to Henry, explaining what had happened. “He wanted to sell Mrs. Roberts a Bible, supposedly bought by her dead son. I’m going to call the police.”

“Don’t bother,” Milt said. “He won’t come back to this street again, if he knows what’s good for him.”

* * * *

I told Phoebe and Dellaphine what happened when I helped them unpack the groceries they’d bought at Western Market. Their purchases were predictable, to say the least. Henry wouldn’t eat offal, and I hated fish, so our meals were mostly chicken and macaroni dishes with an occasional meat loaf or pot roast. We were entitled to a little butter and sugar and more margarine and honey. We grumbled plenty about food rationing, especially the shortage of beef and sugar, but we were still better off than most people in the rest of this world at war. We canned lots of homegrown vegetables, the bounty from our Victory garden. Our hens laid plenty of eggs, although that would slow down during the winter. We were hardly starving.

“Before the war people never thought of doing such awful things,” Phoebe said, shaking her head over the Bible salesman’s nerve. “Imagine taking advantage of Marjorie Roberts’s grief like that. Her only son dead, and some grifter moves in to cheat her out of a few dollars.”

“Mrs. Roberts’s husband has gone back to his job up north now too, Miss Phoebe, did you know?” asked Dellaphine. “And her daughter had to go back to her man and her babies. Mrs. Roberts be all alone next door.”

“Did you call the police?” Phoebe asked, turning to me.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I’m sure he didn’t give his real name, and after Milt decked him, I doubt he’ll turn up in this neighborhood again.”

Phoebe frowned. “Milt hit him?”

I’d hated to tell her, but when she’d see the bruises on Milt’s knuckles, she’d know soon enough.

“Yes, he overheard the conversation we had at the door.”

“How angry was he? Had he been drinking?”

“He was furious,” I said. “But I haven’t seen him take a drink today. He simmered down quickly once Henry and I stopped him.”

I could see Dellaphine shaking her head as she stored the meat and milk in the Frigidaire. “Milt never had a temper when he was a little child,” she said. “He was the sweetest boy.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake he’s lost an arm!” Phoebe said. “Of course he’s angry!”

* * * *

At six thirty I slipped away from the house. Dellaphine didn’t cook on Saturday nights, and I didn’t want to stay at home. I’d wind up in the kitchen making sandwiches and cleaning up afterward. Henry took care of Phoebe’s car and Milt was always willing to run errands, but they couldn’t find the mayonnaise if their lives depended on it. Not that they tried real hard, mind you. Ada wasn’t much better. A clarinetist with the Statler Hotel house band, she was rarely home in the evenings, but when she was, cooking was not on top of her list of things to do. She’d skip a meal before she’d go to the trouble to fry an egg. I, though, was a widow, an ordinary government girl, and the obvious replacement for Dellaphine or Phoebe when they weren’t available. I kept my mouth shut, though, as I did about most of my life. I had to get along with my fellow boarders. Our lodgings were luxurious compared to most boardinghouses.

And I was beginning to wonder if civilian workers could get battle fatigue. I had Top Secret Clearance at the Office of Strategic Services, where I worked for the Morale Operations Branch. We planned “black” propaganda operations in Europe meant to demoralize the German military and the German people. I’d started out as a file clerk, sure, but I’d since been promoted to a real job. I’d started bringing home a briefcase full of papers after work, which meant I needed to take NoDoz a couple of evenings a week to get my paperwork done. So, what with coping with lack of sleep, Milt’s anger, Ada’s dramas, and Dellaphine’s arguments with her grown daughter, Madeleine, sometimes I just wanted to be by myself for an hour.

Our block had a long, wide alley called Dove Court that divided the buildings between I and H streets. If an alley could be considered private, this one was. It had just one narrow entrance from the street. Residents used it to get to their garages and stow trash cans and bicycles and whatever else they wanted off the main street. At night only the lights that filtered out of the windows of homes and small businesses lit the alley.

I crossed it almost every Saturday night, escaping to a little restaurant where I could order a martini and the blue plate special without being bothered by anyone. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those relaxing solitary evenings, however. Marjorie Roberts sat down opposite me in my booth.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

“No, of course not.” How could I turn away a grieving mother? Although Marjorie, with her thick middle and gray hair waved like a washboard, looked more like a grandmother than a mother of a young soldier. I remembered that Phoebe told me she had married late, in her thirties.

Karen, our waitress, brought me my usual martini and set it down in front of me. She was a big-boned girl with a long red ponytail. Karen was about Milt’s age and lived at the end of our street with her widowed sister’s family. During the day she watched her sister’s kids while the sister worked and at night she waitressed at the pub to make her own money.

“I’m so sorry about your son,” Karen said to Marjorie. “I understand. My sister is a war widow. If you need anything, you know we’re right down the street.”

“Thank you, dear,” Marjorie said.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Karen asked her.

“Fizz water with lime would be nice,” Marjorie answered.

After Karen left, Marjorie studied my cocktail.

“Is that a martini?” Marjorie asked me.

“Yes,” I said, “don’t you want one?”

“No, I don’t drink alcohol. Honestly, you girls today are so lucky. When I was your age I wouldn’t have dreamed of going out for dinner by myself, much less ordering a cocktail. But with my husband and daughter gone now, I can’t sit at home and brood.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “About Mark.”

“Yes. Everyone has been so kind. I got a letter from his commanding officer today.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. She used a napkin to sop them up, and it came away stained with mascara and eye shadow, revealing deep circles under her eyes.

When Karen got back to our table with Marjorie’s drink, we both ordered the special, ham croquettes with mashed potatoes and baked beans.

Before she went back to the kitchen, Karen asked me if I wanted another martini.

“No thanks.” I kept a bottle of gin in my bedroom and could fix another drink when I got home. I was pretty sure I was going to want one.

“Oh,” Marjorie said, brightening, “but look what happened today! I got a gift Mark ordered before he left for the Pacific!” She dug around in her large pocketbook and pulled out a Bible. A Bible that looked just like the one the salesman had showed me out in front of my boardinghouse this morning. I felt my stomach lurch.