“It’s mostly those wiccans.” The man screwed up his face.
“Wiccans?”
“Yeah. Wiccans. That’s what they call themselves these days.”
Abruptly, O’Shaughnessy understood. “You mean witches.”
The man nodded.
“Anybody else? Any, say, doctors?”
“No, nobody like that. We get chemists here, too. Sometimes hobbyists. Health supplement types.”
“Anybody who dresses in an old-fashioned, or unusual fashion?”
The man gestured in the vague direction of East Twelfth Street. “They
O’Shaughnessy thought for a moment. “We’re investigating some old crimes that took place near the turn of the century. I was wondering if you’ve got any old records I could examine, lists of clientele and the like.”
“Maybe,” the man said. The voice was high, very breathy.
This answer took O’Shaughnessy by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“The shop burned to the ground in 1924. After it was rebuilt, my grandfather—he was running the place back then—started keeping his records in a fireproof safe. After my father took over, he didn’t use the safe much. In fact, he only used it for storing some possessions of my grandfather’s. He passed away three months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” O’Shaughnessy said. “How did he die?”
“Stroke, they said. So anyway, a few weeks later, an antiques dealer came by. Looked around the shop, bought a few old pieces of furniture. When he saw the safe, he offered me a lot of money if there was anything of historical value inside. So I had it drilled.” The man sniffed. “But there was nothing much. Tell the truth, I’d been hoping for some gold coins, maybe old securities or bonds. The fellow went away disappointed.”
“So what was inside?”
“Papers. Ledgers. Stuff like that. That’s why I told you, maybe.”
“Can I have a look at this safe?”
The man shrugged. “Why not?”
The safe stood in a dimly lit back room, amid stacks of musty boxes and decaying wooden crates. It was shoulder high, made of thick green metal. There was a shiny cylindrical hole where the lock mechanism had been drilled out.
The man pulled the door open, then stepped back as O’Shaughnessy came forward. He knelt and peered inside. Dust motes hung like a pall in the air. The contents of the safe lay in deep shadow.
“Can you turn on some more lights?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
“Can’t. Aren’t any more.”
“Got a flashlight handy?”
The man shook his head. “But hold on a second.” He shuffled away, then returned a minute later, carrying a lighted taper in a brass holder.
Considering its large size, the safe was rather empty. O’Shaughnessy moved the candle around, making a mental inventory of its contents. Stacks of old newspapers in one corner; various yellowed papers, tied into small bundles; several rows of ancient-looking ledger books; two more modern-looking volumes, bound in garish red plastic; half a dozen shoe boxes with dates scrawled on their faces.
Setting the candle on the floor of the safe, O’Shaughnessy grabbed eagerly at the old ledgers. The first one he opened was simply a shop inventory, for the year 1925: page after page of items, written in a spidery hand. The other volumes were similar: semiannual inventories, ending in 1942.
“When did your father take over the shop?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
The man thought for a moment. “During the war. ’41 maybe, or ’42.”
Moving the candle to one side, and fighting back a rising sense of disappointment, he reached for the bundles of papers. These were all bills and invoices from wholesalers, covering the same period: 1925 to 1942. No doubt they would match the inventory ledgers.
The red plastic volumes were clearly far too recent to be of any interest. That left just the shoe boxes.
Inside were old tax returns.
O’Shaughnessy sat back on his haunches, candle in one hand and shoe box in the other.
With a sigh, he leaned forward to replace the box. As he did so, he glanced once again at the red plastic
