Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

“Ice-house,” Aaron said. “Was it a house with pillars?”

“Yes. That’s the place. Do you have it listed? I thought I saw a ‘for sale’ sign, but I wasn’t sure.”

Aaron shook his head, and chuckled dryly. “Yep, we got it listed all right.” He flipped over a loose-leaf book, and pointed to a typewritten sheet. “You won’t be interested for long.”

“Why not?”

He turned the book around. “Read it for yourself.” The fat man did so.

AUTHENTIC COLONIAL. 8 rooms, two baths, automatic oil furnace, large porches, trees and shrubbery. Near shopping, schools. $75,000.

“Still interested?”

The man stirred uncomfortably. “Why not? Something wrong with it?”

“Well.” Aaron scratched his temple. “If you really like this town, Mr. Waterbury — I mean, if you really want to settle here, I got any number of places that’d suit you better.”

“Now, just a minute!” The fat man looked indignant. “What do you call this? I’m asking you about this colonial house. You want to sell it, or don’t you?”

“Do I?” Aaron chuckled. “Mister, I’ve had that property on my hands for five years. There’s nothing I’d rather collect a commission on. Only my luck just ain’t that good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you won’t buy. That’s what I mean. I keep the listing on my books just for the sake of old Sadie Grimes. Otherwise, I wouldn’t waste the space. Believe me.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Then let me explain.” He took out a cigar, but just to roll it in his fingers. “Old Mrs. Grimes put her place up for sale five years ago, when her son died. She gave me the job of selling it. I didn’t want the job — no, sir. I told her that to her face. The old place just ain’t worth the kind of money she’s asking. I mean, heck! The old place ain’t even worth ten thousand!”

The fat man swallowed. “Ten? And she wants seventy-five?”

“That’s right. Don’t ask me why. It’s a real old house. Oh, I don’t mean one of those solid-as-a-rock old houses. I mean old. Never been de-termited. Some of the beams will be going in the next couple of years. Basement’s full of water half the time. Upper floor leans to the right about nine inches. And the grounds are a mess.”

“Then why does she ask so much?”

Aaron shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Sentiment, maybe. Been in her family since the Revolution, something like that.”

The fat man studied the floor. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Too bad!” He looked up at Aaron, and smiled sheepishly. “And I kinda liked the place. It was — I don’t know how to explain it — the right kind of house.”

“I know what you mean. It’s a friendly old place. A good buy at ten thousand. But seventy-five?” He laughed. “I think I know Sadie’s reasoning, though. You see, she doesn’t have much money. Her son was supporting her, doing well in the city. Then he died, and she knew that it was sensible to sell. But she couldn’t bring herself to part with the old place. So she put a price tag so big that nobody would come near it. That eased her conscience.” He shook his head sadly. “It’s a strange world, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Waterbury said distantly.

Then he stood up. “Tell you what, Mr. Hacker. Suppose I drive out to see Mrs. Grimes? Suppose I talk to her about it, get her to change her price.”

“You’re fooling yourself, Mr. Waterbury. I’ve been trying for five years.”

“Who knows? Maybe if somebody else tried—”

Aaron Hacker spread his palms. “Who knows, is right. It’s a strange world, Mr. Waterbury. If you’re willing to go to the trouble, I’ll be only too happy to lend a hand.”

“Good. Then I’ll leave now…”

“Fine! You just let me ring Sadie Grimes. I’ll tell her you’re on your way.”

Waterbury drove slowly through the quiet streets. The shade trees that lined the avenues cast peaceful dappled shadows on the hood of the convertible. The powerful motor beneath it operated in whispers, so he could hear the fitful chirpings of the birds overhead.

He reached the home of Sadie Grimes without once passing another moving vehicle. He parked his car beside the rotted picket fence that faced the house like a row of disorderly sentries.

The lawn was a jungle of weeds and crabgrass, and the columns that rose from the front porch were entwined with creepers.

There was a hand knocker on the door. He pumped it twice.

The woman who responded was short and plump. Her white hair was vaguely purple in spots, and the lines in her face descended downward toward her small, stubborn chin. She wore a heavy wool cardigan, despite the heat.

“You must be Mr. Waterbury,” she said. “Aaron Hacker said you were coming.”

“Yes.” The fat man smiled. “How do you do, Mrs. Grimes?”

“Well as I can expect. I suppose you want to come in?”

“Awfully hot out here.” He chuckled.

“Mm. Well, come in then. I’ve put some lemonade in the ice-box. Only don’t expect me to bargain with you, Mr. Waterbury. I’m not that kind of person.”

“Of course not,” the man said winningly, and followed her inside.

It was dark and cool. The window shades were opaque, and they had been drawn. They entered a square parlor with heavy, baroque furniture shoved unimaginatively against every wall. The only color in the room was in the faded hues of the tasseled rug that lay in the center of the bare floor.

The old woman headed straight for a rocker, and sat motionless, her wrinkled hands folded sternly.

“Well?” she said. “If you have anything to say, Mr. Waterbury, I suggest you say it.”

The fat man cleared his throat. “Mrs. Grimes, I’ve just spoken with your real-estate agent—”

“I know all that,” she snapped. “Aaron’s a fool. All the more for letting you come here with the notion of changing my mind. I’m too old for changing my mind, Mr. Waterbury.”

“Er — well, I don’t know if that was my intention, Mrs. Grimes. I thought we’d just — talk a little.”

She leaned back, and the rocker groaned. “Talk’s free. Say what you like.”

“Yes.” He mopped his face again, and shoved the handkerchief only halfway back into his pocket. “Well, let me put it this way, Mrs. Grimes. I’m a business man — a bachelor. I’ve worked for a long time, and I’ve made a fair amount of money. Now I’m ready to retire — preferably, somewhere quiet. I like Ivy Corners. I passed through here some years back, on my way to — er, Albany. I thought, one day, I might like to settle here.”

“So?”

“So, when I drove through your town today, and saw this house — I was enthused. It just seemed — right for me.”

“I like it too, Mr. Waterbury. That’s why I’m asking a fair price for it.”

Waterbury blinked. “Fair price? You’ll have to admit, Mrs. Grimes, these days a house like this shouldn’t cost more than—”

“That’s enough!” the old woman cried. “I told you, Mr. Waterbury — I don’t want to sit here all day and argue with you. If you won’t pay my price, then we can forget all about it.”

“But, Mrs. Grimes—”

“Good day, Mr. Waterbury!”

She stood up, indicating that he was expected to do the same.

But he didn’t. “Wait a moment, Mrs. Grimes,” he said, “just a moment. I know it’s crazy, but — all right. I’ll pay what you want.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Are you sure, Mr. Waterbury?”

“Positive! I’ve enough money. If that’s the only way you’ll have it, that’s the way it’ll be.”

She smiled thinly. “I think that lemonade’ll be cold enough. I’ll bring you some — and then I’ll tell you something about this house.”