It was six when I woke up again. My shoulder muscles had stiffened from the aftermath of carrying Ralph MacDonald’s flowers up to Elena. I wanted to soak them under a hot shower. That was impossible with my gauze mitts. Anyway, I needed to keep my hands protected for my upcoming labors.
Although I’d had a little peanut butter while watching the Bears, I hadn’t eaten a proper meal yet today. I still didn’t have any real food in the house. I’d planned to ask Robin to drive me to the store yesterday, but after his squib about taking me off the case it had gone out of my mind. I didn’t think I could do my Santa Claus imitation without dinner.
I pulled on the top to my long underwear and put a black cotton sweater on over that. It might be cool on the rooftops and I didn’t want anything as bulky—or as visible—as a jacket. Jeans and my black basketball high-tops completed the ensemble that the well-dressed burglar was wearing this year. I also needed some kind of dark cap or scarf to keep light from reflecting from my face or hair. I rummaged through my drawers and came up with a soft black linen square Eileen Mallory had given me last Christmas. I didn’t think the green and blue design woven into it would show up at night.
If I’m carrying my gun I usually wear a shoulder holster. Since I wanted to bring a few tools with me tonight, I dug out an old police-style belt with a holster and holes for slinging handcuffs or a truncheon.
My best flashlight was buried in the Prairie Shores rubble, but I had another one someplace. After rooting through the dining-room cupboard and the hall closet, I found it at the back of the refrigerator top. Although a little greasy to the touch, its battery still worked. I strung some twine through the hook on its end and tied it to my belt. A small hammer, a screwdriver, and a dark hand towel completed my supplies. I used to have a set of picklocks given to me by a grateful client in my PD days, but the police had confiscated those several years ago. I picked up my rolling footstool from behind the refrigerator and headed out.
I managed to slink out of the apartment without rousing Mr. Contreras, Peppy, or even Vinnie the banker. The fall twilight had set in, purply-gray and changing quickly to black. No passerby could make out my equipment belt. I stuck it in the Chevy’s trunk with the footstool and drove the four blocks to the Belmont Diner for dinner. After a bowl of hearty cabbage soup and a plate of roast chicken with mashed potatoes, I felt too stuffed to move.
Gluttony is a terrible enemy of the private detective. I’d have to wait a good hour before starting my trek, maybe even longer. You’re disgusting, I admonished myself privately as I paid the bill. Peter Wimsey and Philip Marlowe never had this kind of problem.
Back in the Chevy I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. If I returned to my apartment, the chances were good I’d run into the old man. If his jealous sixth sense warned him I was setting out on an adventure, I might not be able to get away without him. I didn’t want to go to a movie. I didn’t want to sit in my office with a novel.
I put the car into gear and went north, up to Estes. The Chevy seemed to be behaving itself again—maybe I’d been imagining the groan in its engine.
It was only eight when I got to Saul Seligman’s house, not too late for visiting even an old man. I could see a dim glow of light behind the heavily draped windows. A late-model Chrysler stood immediately in front of the house. I parked just behind it and went up the walk to ring the bell.
After a long wait the locks turned back. Seligman’s elder daughter, Barbara Feldman, answered the door. She was close to fifty, well groomed without being fashionable, her reddish hair dyed and carefully set, her sweater and slacks tailored but comfortable.
She looked at me vaguely, not remembering me from the visit I’d paid to her Northbrook home.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski,” I said loudly enough to penetrate the glass. “The private investigator who came to see you last week about the fire at the Indiana Arms.”
Mrs. Feldman cracked the door so she could speak without shouting back at me. “My father isn’t well this evening. He’s not up to seeing anyone.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Mrs. Donnelly’s death must have upset him terribly. That’s why I’ve come. If he’s really ill I won’t stay long, but it’s possible he knows something that would help me get a line on her killer.”
She frowned. “The police have already been here. He doesn’t know anything.”
“They may not have known the right questions to ask. I think I do.”
She thought it over, sucking on her upper lip, then shut the door. At least she didn’t rebolt the myriad locks. While I waited for her to come back I did some gentle quad stretches. I didn’t want to face a five-foot jump and miss because I hadn’t loosened up. A couple passing by with a small dog on a leash eyed me curiously but didn’t say anything.