Before getting into the car I found a phone on the corner to call Robin. He was in a meeting—the perennial location of insurance managers—but his secretary promised to have a letter of authorization waiting for me in the morning.
The afternoon was wearing on; I hadn’t had a proper meal all day, just some toast with Mr. Contreras’s foul coffee. It’s hard to think when you’re hungry—the demands of the stomach become paramount. I found a storefront Polish restaurant where they gave me a bowl of thick cabbage soup and a plate of homemade rye bread. That was so good that I had some raspberry cake and a cup of overbaked coffee before moving farther north to find Mr. Seligman.
Estes is a quiet residential street in Rogers Park. Seligman lived in an unprepossessing brick house east of Ridge. The small front yard hadn’t been much tended during the long hot summer; large clumps of crabgrass and weeds had taken over the straggly grass. The walk was badly broken, not the ideal path for an elderly person, especially when the Chicago winter set in.
The stairs weren’t in much better shape—I sidestepped a major hole on the third riser just in time to keep from twisting my ankle. A threadbare mat lay in front of the door. I skidded on its shiny surface when I rang the bell.
I could hear the bell echoing dully behind the heavy front door. Nothing happened. I waited a few minutes and rang again. After another wait I began to wonder if I’d passed Seligman somewhere on Ridge. Just as I was getting ready to leave, though, I heard the rasp of bolts sliding back. It was a clumsy, laborious process. When the final lock came apart the door opened slowly inward and an old man blinked at me across the threshold.
He must have been about Mr. Contreras’s age, but where my neighbor had a vitality and curiosity that kept him fit, Mr. Seligman seemed to have retreated from life. His face had slipped into a series of soft, downward creases that slid into the high collar of his faded beige turtleneck. Over that he wore a torn cardigan, one side of which was partly tucked into his pajama pants. He did not look like the mastermind of an arson and fraud ring.
“Yes?” His voice was soft and husky.
I forced a smile to my lips and explained my errand.
“You’re with the police, young lady?”
“I’m a private investigator. Your insurance company has hired me to investigate the fire.”
“The insurance? My insurance is all paid, I’m sure of that, but you’d have to check with Rita.” As he shook his head, bewildered, I caught a glimpse of a hearing aid in his left ear.
I raised my voice and tried to speak clearly. “I know your insurance is paid. The company hired me. Ajax wants me to find out who burned down your hotel.”
“Oh. Who burned it down.” He nodded five or six times. “I have no idea. It was a great shock, a very great shock. I’ve been expecting the police or the fire department to come talk to me, but we pay our taxes for nothing these days. Let it burn to the ground and don’t do nothing to stop it, then don’t do nothing to catch the people who did it.”
“I agree,” I put in. “That’s why Ajax hired me to investigate it for them. I wonder if we could go inside and talk it over.”
He studied me carefully, decided I didn’t look like a major menace, and invited me in. As soon as he’d shut the door behind me and fastened one of the five locks, I began to wish I’d finished the conversation on the stoop. The smell, combined of must, unwashed dishes, and stale grease, seemed to seep from the walls and furniture. I didn’t know life could exist in such air.
The living room where he took me was dark and chilly. I tried not to curse when I ran into a low table, but as I backed away from it I caught my left leg on some heavy metal object and couldn’t help swearing.
“Careful, there, young lady, these were all Fanny’s things and I don’t want them damaged.”
“No, sir,” I said meekly, waiting for him to finish fumbling with a light before trying to move any farther. When the heavily fringed lamp sprang into life, I saw that I’d tripped on a set of fire irons mysteriously placed in the middle of the room. As there was no fireplace perhaps that was the ideal spot for them. I threaded my way past the rest of the obstacles and sat gingerly on the edge of an overstuffed armchair. My rear sank deep within its soft, dusty upholstery.
Mr. Seligman sat on a matching couch that was close by, if you discounted an empty brass birdcage hanging between us. “Now what is it you want, young lady?”
He was hard of hearing and depressed but clearly not mentally impaired. When he took in the gist of my remarks his sagging cheeks mottled with color.
“My insurance company thinks I burned down my own building? What do I pay rates for? I pay my taxes and the police don’t help me, I pay my insurance and my company insults me—”