Parker put everything back except the scotch and stowed the suitcase in the closet. Then he watched television awhile before going back to sleep.
Late the next morning he picked up his five hundred at the Western Union office in the lobby. He went out of the hotel and walked four blocks to an antique store in a run-down side street. The inside of the place was packed and crammed and dusty. It looked to be mostly junk, antique only in the sense that it was old.
An old bell had rung the door when he’d pushed it open and after a minute a very thin, straight old woman came out of the back somewhere. She had gray hair tightly gathered in a bun at the back of her head, her dress was black and dusty, and her bifocals had thin metal frames and round lenses. Her lips were thin. She said, “May I be of service?” Briskly, not caring much.
Parker looked at her. “I wanted to talk to Dempsey,” he said.
“Mr. Dempsey passed on,” she said. “I’m in charge now.”
Parker was doubtful. He said, “I’m interested in guns.”
“Antique guns?”
“Sure.”
“Well, we do have some,” she said. She seemed somewhat doubtful herself now. “Some very nice old derringers, for instance.”
“I had something a little different in mind,” Parker said.
She looked at him through the lower part of the bifocals, then the upper part again. “Were you a customer of Mr. Dempsey’s?”
“I was recommended by a customer of his,” Parker said.
“Who would that be?”
“Fellow named Grofield.”
“Oh, the actor.” She smiled. “Yes, I remember Mr. Grofield. A charming young man.”
Parker didn’t care about that. He said, “He’s the one told me about Dempsey.”
“Of course,” she said. “Then you’ll want to see some of our special stock, won’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Come along,” she said.
He went with her down the narrow aisle between the seatless chairs, the cracked vases, the chipped enamel basins, the scarred chifferobes. Everywhere there was frayed cloth, cracked leather, sagging upholstery, chipped veneer, and an overall aura of dust and disuse and tired old age.
The doorway at the back was low enough so Parker had to duck his head. The old woman led him through a narrow kitchen containing equipment almost as old and tired-looking as the wares in the shop, and then through another low door and down a flight of stairs into a low-ceilinged basement full of more ancient furniture. It was impossible to see how half of it had been maneuvered down the narrow stairs, or why anyone had bothered.
The old woman said, “What do you need?”
“Handguns. Two of them. Alike, if possible.”
“Well, let’s see. You wait here.”
He waited. She went away and disappeared into the dimness around a Victorian loveseat with a medallion back. Parker waited, occasionally hearing a small sound from the general area ahead of him, and then she came back carrying two shoeboxes. She set these down on a handy dusty surface and opened them up. “Both alike,” she said.
They were two Smith & Wesson Terriers, a five-shot .32 revolver with a two-inch barrel. A good gun for carrying unobtrusively, good in close quarters, but no good at any range at all and not packing a very hard wallop.
Parker said, “Nothing heavier than that?”
“Not two alike,” she said.
He picked up the guns and hefted them. They were both empty. They both looked in good shape, with their front sights, with no obvious scratches or dents. Parker clicked the triggers of both and said, “How much?”
She thought it over, frowning at the guns in his hands. Then, very doubtfully, she said, “A hundred for the two?” As though sure he’d argue with her. And before he could say anything she added hastily, “And a box of shells you get too.”
“That’s all right,” Parker said.
“It is?” She didn’t believe he wasn’t going to haggle with her.
“A hundred for the two,” he said. He put the guns back in their shoeboxes and reached for his wallet.
“That’s fine, then,” she said. “I’ll go get the shells.”
She went away and got the shells, and when she came back Parker had two fifties in his hand. She handed him the shells, and he handed her the money. She thanked him and said, “You know, I’d rather you didn’t load them in the store here.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“That’s fine. Shall I put some string around the boxes?”
“Yeah, do that.”
