they bought stolen goods, and even sometimes stole it themselves. He said that if they got their hands on something that really was first-class, they would use it as bait: they’d take cash deposits on orders and never deliver, or just use it to get into houses.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mary.
“Well, there were certain items that were the genuine article, superior goods. An example would be the McCormick reaper. There were dozens of kinds of reapers, but now nobody can name one, because the McCormick was best. They would have one on a wagon when they came to a town. It made them seem like respectable merchants. People would trust them, invite them into their houses. While one man was making a sales pitch or luring the farmer outside to watch a demonstration, another would be pocketing the silverware or jewelry. Jonathan said there were all kinds of schemes and tricks. He said that later they traveled by rail, and that let them extend their range to Ohio and Indiana, Michigan and Illinois, but the pattern was about the same. They’d come home at the end of summer and spend the fall and winter working to make old things look new, cheap goods look expensive, and disguising stolen items for resale. Did you see the mill while you were there?”
“The old mill?” said Walker. “It’s been made into a restaurant.”
“That’s where all that tinkering went on.”
“A textile mill?”
“It wasn’t that. People used ‘mill’ in the British sense, to mean factory. But it worked the same. It was on a stream because water power could be used to turn a lathe or a wheel to grind or polish. And they could take base-metal cutlery or vessels, silver-plate them, and dump the chemicals in the stream. After I heard it from Jonathan, I went and looked at the place. I didn’t see any reason to believe he was wrong, but of course, the evidence was long gone.”
Mary said, “I suppose it must have been. And you said there weren’t as many people?”
“Jonathan’s theory was that Coulter’s whole repertoire of tricks and swindles required farmers with money to spend. When hard times hit in the 1920s, the victims didn’t have enough money to keep Coulter in business. Jonathan was a great admirer of simple explanations, but maybe it’s true.”
Walker said, “And the people moved away?”
She nodded. “Looking back on it, I guess you could say the town pretty much died. When I was there fifty years ago, I’ll bet two-thirds of those big houses were empty. I don’t know where the people went.” She brightened, as though a new idea had amused her. “I suppose they went out West with new swindles.”
“Then you believe what Mr. Tooker told you?” asked Mary.
“I’ve come to. Over the years, I heard bits and pieces of it again. A painter from Stoddard I hired about twenty-five years ago had the worst old truck I ever saw, and he was always grumbling about it. He said that when he bought it, he’d been ‘Coultered.’ I perked up my ears, and he told me some of the same things Jonathan had. It seems that around here at one time, people would call anyone who was a cheat or swindler a ‘Coulter.’ I was thinking of doing an article on the place at one time, but I never got around to it.”
Walker said, “Did you ever make any notes, or anything?”
She stared out the windows at the garden, “Well, yes, I did. I remember writing things down when I was in Concord, looking up the names of early settlers . . . ” She stopped. “But that’s all gone now. My investigation never turned up any primary sources on the swindling. It was all just old stories. I didn’t keep the notes.”
“Do you remember any of the names?” asked Mary. She turned to Walker. “What was that one you wondered about?”
“Scully,” said Walker. “There was a distant relative on my mother’s side who lived in New Hampshire, and I wondered . . . ”
Ivy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It was so long ago.”
Walker tried another strategy. “I wonder if the survivors just multiplied. Forty years is enough time.”
“Oh,” said Ivy. “But those are all new people. A few years ago, when that new research place was built, people started moving in. All those big old houses that got built with ill-gotten gains were being rehabilitated, restored, and painted when I last saw the place. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someday the whole town was made into an official historic district. And not one person in it will have any idea what sort of place it was.”
Walker waited through the rest of the visit, letting Mary guide him through the ritual. She led the conversation away from Coulter and on to ever-widening generalities about the district, and he could tell that she was giving Ivy Thwaite a chance to remember something else. Then Mary announced that they were overstaying their invitation. There was another exchange of extravagant mutual praise and thanks, a lot of solicitous, superfluous help with the clearing of china and linens from the table. As they were making their way to the car, Ivy Thwaite opened her screen door again and said, “I’m going to call Myra Sanderidge right now and tell her to expect you soon. Let me know if you learn anything interesting.”
“I will,” said Mary. “And I’ll tell her I already have.”
Walker drove carefully out toward the road, and Mary looked at him. “Well?” she asked. “What did you think?”
“I think you’ve seduced old ladies before,” he said. “It’s a whole side of you that I never saw before. I kind of liked it.”
“Don’t get too used to it,” she said. “Just because I know how decent people behave doesn’t mean I want to be one of them.”
He shrugged. “I’ll keep a lot of bail money on hand.”
“Save it for my expenses,” said Mary. “She gave me an idea of how I should go about this, and if she really does call Myra Sanderidge, it will go ten times as quickly—a few days, not a few weeks. As soon as I can drop you off at your hotel, I’m going to Concord.”
33
Walker stood on the corner of West Street and Main and watched Mary’s car until it had slipped into the rest of the traffic and moved out of sight. He had insisted that she not drop him at his hotel, where anyone watching him would see them together. She had laughed at him, but she had complied.
As he walked to the corner of Keys Street, he wished he had gone with her. He still had not been able to figure out exactly what their relationship was, or what it should be, and she was no help. If he had asked her she would have come back with “Who said this was a relationship?” The one thing he had decided on his own was that every time she left, he hated to see her go. As he passed the familiar shops and restaurants, he consoled himself. It was likely that whatever Stillman would decide to do next would be dangerous, and it would almost certainly be unpleasant and illegal. He would feel better if she was away for a few days in some big public building surrounded by musty old papers.
Spending the morning in a glass room surrounded by thick, gnarled old rosebushes with cabbage-sized roses had not made him forget. The people he and Stillman had been searching for were killers. When the sidewalk brought him past the last high building, he could see Stillman’s rented Explorer in the parking lot beside the hotel.
He stepped in through the side entrance, came up the hallway, and knocked on Stillman’s door. Stillman opened it with the telephone receiver at his ear, and Walker stepped inside. Stillman was standing at the desk with an open telephone book in front of him. He nodded at Walker and said, “Mr. Fisher? How are you today. My name is Eric Campbell, and I’m calling to let you know that Golden Future Funds has some information that could be of great interest to you. Are you of retirement age, sir?” He listened for a moment, making a note on a sheet of paper in front of him. “Is anyone in the household under sixty-five? No? Then I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. Thank you for your patience.”
He hung up and dialed another number. “Hello, is this Mrs. Gilman?” He listened. “Miss Gilman. I’m sorry. This is Calvin Arnott calling from Kirby Travel in Manchester. We’re trying to give away a vacation for two in Antigua, and I said
He hung up the telephone and glanced at Walker, then looked down at his list and put his finger on the next line. “Welcome home. Get anything?”
