“But I’m paying in advance, you know. Are you sure you’ll want me to stay out my week?”
She struggled, but four dollars in hand beat getting rid of me, in the bush.
“I guess I can’t get you out of here in less’n a week, anyhow. You go ahead and pay.”
Except for two one-dollar bills, I had only a ten in my handbag; I offered that to her.
She gave me a five and a one in change; sat down with a fine air of business to write out my receipt.
I thumbed my change idly while I waited; my little finger caught in a tear. It was in the five-dollar bill, right in the lateral crease.
The bill was as familiar to me as a read newspaper. It was the same bill I had taken down to the cellar to pay my rent on the day before Mrs. Garr was to have gone to Chicago.
I thought I had the Hallorans then. I debated with myself, wildly, whether I should call for the man in the hall, but the pleasure of facing Mrs. Halloran myself was too great. I spoke softly.
“So you did find some of Mrs. Garr’s money.”
She looked up, startled; my words had had intensity enough to make them noticeable.
“No, I never did. Only what I found yesterday and the policeman took.”
“Oh, I suppose Mrs. Garr gave you the money!” I made it insulting enough so she’d want to deny it.
“Not a cent she didn’t give me for almost a month. Mr. Halloran give me the money to go to Chicago, except the ticket. He got his gov’ment money right on that Friday. His June money.”
I wasn’t interested in her Chicago money; I couldn’t imagine her bringing back any she’d taken along. I laid the torn bill on the table before her; she stared at it with bewildered, frightened eyes.
“I recognize this bill. It’s the bill with which I paid my rent last week. To Mrs. Garr.”
“Oh my,” she whispered tremulously. “I must of got it offen somebody in the house. I didn’t bring no five-dollar bills with me when I come. All I had was my car tokens, and fifty cents, and two one-dollar bills. And maybe some nickels. All the rest I got goin’ around and askin’ everybody for their rent.”
So that was it! Or was she lying? If her husband had given her the bill, she’d be as frightened as this, too. And she’d lie, of course. I tried again.
“Can you remember who gave it to you?”
“Lemme think. Mr. Kistler come down early wearin’ his fishin’ clo’es. A five and a one he give me. So then I waited till Miss Sands went down to light the heater; she give me a five, even. I had to go back up with her. So then I knocked for Mr. Grant, and I gave him three dollars change for his five. So then I went to the Wallers, but they said they wouldn’t, on account of the estate owed them money, so I said I would get the G-men, and I will, too; they can’t do me that way. I knocked a long time for Mr. Buffingham, I guess he was in bed yet, he’s got a funny alarm clock. He wouldn’t pay me nine dollars like it said in the book, he said it was just three dollars a week; I bet he owed her money; I’m going to look in her papers for that. All he had was a five, but I went to the Wallers and they changed it, and I gave Mr. Buffingham two dollars change. You was the last one.”
After that, how much of a story did that torn bill tell? If it had been found by ransacking that kitchen downstairs, then any one of the people who had paid Mrs. Halloran with five-dollar bills would be suspect: Mr. Kistler, Miss Sands, Mr. Grant, Mr. Buffingham. It seemed to clear the Wallers.
But I had paid that bill to Mrs. Garr on Thursday. She was in the house for most of two days after that. She might have paid out the bill in change to any one of the lodgers.
It was maddening. Every time I thought I had a clue, it petered out like that. Anyone and everyone still suspect.
I picked up the receipt book. Mr. Kistler normally paid on Mondays. Mr. Grant and Miss Sands normally paid on Tuesdays, Mr. Buffingham on Wednesdays. Yes, the bill was a clue. If any one of those four had paid it in, it was incriminating.
“Can’t you remember? Think. Close your eyes. Imagine Miss Sands is paying you her rent again. She unclasps her handbag, she takes out money. She gives it to you. A five-dollar bill. You look at it. Is it whole and new, or ragged and torn?”
“Well, it might be.” Mrs. Halloran was infuriatingly uncertain.
I tried it for every one of the four, but all I emerged with was limpness and perspiration on the part of Mrs. Halloran. I still wasn’t sure she wasn’t lying; I tried again to suggest Mr. Halloran had given her the bill sometime during the past week. Denying that was the one thing she was certain about.
From then on, whenever she saw me, Mrs. Halloran would shut her eyes, look blank for a moment, and then open them brightly on me, in indication that no, she couldn’t remember about that note—yet. But to all intents and purposes she really did try.
I spent a peaceful day and night. I remember them very well.
Hodge Kistler called me up just before twelve o’clock on Monday.
“Well, here’s one more Guide started on its earthward journey,” he said. “And that proofreader has come across. The lazy bum. I knew he wasn’t putting himself into his job. I could buy you some lunch if you promise not to go over thirty cents. We could prepare for the inquest together. Meet me in the Wetmore Grill, one o’clock?”
The cheapest lunch
