He didn’t ring the bell; if the tenant was really Benedict Artman, he wouldn’t be able to open the door. Although he would only need one arm for that, he shook his head at his own morbid joke and took out his special keys. The old lock gave after only a few clicks, opening onto the dark living room. In the semi-darkness, he felt for the broken switch that—after several sparks—turned on a light from the floor lamp.
Right, he grumbled, from semi-darkness to half-light. That lamp is useless.
The thick curtains kept the room dark even in broad daylight. This Artman was a mole, John thought, drawing back the heavy drapes.
The living room looked to him—who had spent his life in flats just like this—to be an average bachelor pad. This was even more puritan than John’s, though, which surprised
