Sara Paretsky - Indemnity Only

Lotty kept up a stream of invective during the inspection which became heavily laden with German, a language I don’t speak. I gave up trying to calm her down and merely nodded and grunted agreement. Paul finally brought it to a halt by coming in to say that the front door was now secure, and did she want him to do anything else?

“No, my dear, thank you. Go out and visit Jill, and take very good care of her. We don’t want her harmed.”

Paul agreed fervently. He gave me my car keys, and told me the Chevy was over on Seminary off Irving Park Road. I’d thought about leaving him the car, but felt I’d better hang on to it: I didn’t know what the evening would bring in the way of action.

I called Larry to see if my apartment was ready for occupation. It was; he’d left the keys to the new locks with the first-floor tenants; they’d seemed a bit friendlier than Mrs. Alvarez on the second floor.

“Well, everything is all set, Lotty: I can go home. Sorry I didn’t yesterday, and sleep with the place nailed shut-it would have spared you this invasion.”

Her mouth twisted in her sardonic smile. “Ah, forget it, Vic, my anger storm has passed, blown over. Now I am feeling a little melancholy at being alone-I shall miss those two children. They are very sweet together… I forgot to ask: Did you find Miss McGraw?”

“I forgot to tell you-I did. And I should check to see whether she is safely ensconced in her new hiding place.” I put in a call to my answering service; yes, that long-suffering outfit reported, someone had called up and left a message “yes.” They had not left a name, but said I would know what it meant. I told them they could switch my office calls to my own home number. In the activity of the last few days I’d forgotten to get a Kelly Girl to tidy my office, but at least it was boarded shut. I’d wait until tomorrow to go down there.

I tried Ralph, but there was no answer. He wasn’t at the office, either. Out for dinner? Was I jealous? “Well, Lotty, this is it. Thanks for letting me disrupt your life for a few days. You’ve made a major impression on Jill-she told me the maid up there was trying to hassle her but she ‘pretended she was Lotty’ and didn’t pay her any mind.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea-to model herself on me, that is. A very attractive girl-amazing that she’s avoided all that suburban insularity. “She sat on the daybed to watch me pack. “What now? Can-you expose the killer?”

“I’ve got to find a lever,” I said. “I know who did it-not who fired the actual shot, that’s probably a guy named Tony Bronsky, but it could have been any one of several of Smeissen’s crew. But who desired that shot to be fired-that I know but can’t prove. I know what the crime was, though, and I know how it was worked.” I zipped the canvas bag shut. “What I need is a lever, or maybe a wedge.” I was talking to myself more than to Lotty. “A wedge to pry this guy apart a bit. If I can find out that the fiddle couldn’t be worked without his involvement, then maybe I can force him into the open.”

I was standing with one foot on the bed, absent-mindedly tapping the suitcase with my fingers while I thought. Lotty said, “If I were a sculptor, I would make a statue of you-Nemesis come to life. You will think of a way-I see it in your face.” She stood on tiptoe and gave me a kiss. “I’ll walk you to the street-if anyone shoots at you, then I can patch you up quickly, before too much blood is lost.”

I laughed. “Lotty, you’re wonderful. By all means, cover my back for me.”

She walked me to the corner of Seminary, but the street was clear. “That’s because of that Sergeant Mc-Something,” she said. “I think he’s been driving around here from time to time. Still, Vic, be careful: you have no mother, but you are a daughter of my spirit. I should not like anything to happen to you.”

“Lotty, that’s melodrama,” I protested. “Don’t start getting old, for God’s sake.” She shrugged her thin shoulders in a way wholly European and gave me a sardonic smile, but her eyes were serious as I walked up the street to my car.

Shoot-Out on Elm Street

Larry and his friend the carpenter had done a beautiful job on my apartment. The door was a masterpiece, with carved flowers on the panels. The carpenter had installed two dead bolts, and the action on them was clean and quiet. Inside, the place shone as it had not for months. Not a trace of the weekend ravage remained. Although Larry had sent the shredded couch away, he had moved chairs and an occasional table around to fill the empty space. He had left a bill in the middle of the kitchen table. Two people for two days at $8.00 an hour, $256.00. The door, locks, and installation, $315.00. New supplies of flour, sugar, beans, and spices; new pillows for the bed: $97.00. It seemed like a pretty reasonable bill to me. I wondered who was going to pay me, though. Maybe Jill could borrow from her mother until her trust fund matured.

I went to look through my jewelry box. By some miracle the vandals had not taken my mother’s few valuable pieces, but I thought I’d better lock them in a bank vault and not leave them around for the next invader. Larry seemed to have thrown out the shards of the broken Venetian glass. I should have told him to save them, but that couldn’t be helped; it was beyond restoration, anyway. The other seven held pride of place in the built-in china cupboard, but I couldn’t look at them without a thud in my stomach.

I tried Ralph again. This time he answered on the fourth ring. “What’s up, Miss Marple?” he asked. “I thought you were out after Professor Moriarty until tomorrow.”

“I found him earlier than I expected. In fact, I found out the secret that Peter Thayer died to protect. Only he didn’t want to protect it. You know that claim draft I gave you? Did you ever find the file?”

“No. I told you I put it on the missing-file search, but it hasn’t turned up.”

“Well, it may never. Do you know who Joseph Gielczowski is?”

“What is this? Twenty questions? I’ve got someone coming over in twenty minutes, Vic.”

“Joseph Gielczowski is a senior vice-president of the Knifegrinders union. He has not been on an assembly line for twenty-three years. If you went to visit him in his home, you would find he was as healthy as you are. Or you could go see him at Knifegrinders headquarters where he is able to work and draw a salary without needing any indemnity payments.”

There was a pause. “Are you trying to tell me that that guy is fraudulently drawing Workers Compensation payments?”

“No,” I said.

“Goddamnit, Vic, if he’s healthy and is getting indemnity drafts, then he’s drawing them fraudulently.”

“No,” I reiterated. “Sure, they’re fraudulent, but he’s not drawing them.”

“Well, who is, then?”

“Your boss.”

Ralph exploded into the phone. “you’ve got this damned bee in your bonnet about Masters, Vic, and I’m sick of it! He’s one of the most respected members of a highly respected company in a very respectable industry. To suggest that he’s involved in something like that-”

“I’m not suggesting it, I know it,” I said coldly. “I know that he and Andrew McGraw, head of the Knifegrinders union, set up a fund with themselves as joint trustees, enabling them to cash drafts, or whatever it is you do to get payments on drafts, drawn to Gielczowski and at least twenty-two other healthy people.”

“How can you possibly know something like that?” Ralph said, furious.

“Because, I just listened to someone read a copy of the agreement to me over the phone. I’ve also found someone who has seen Masters with McGraw on numerous occasions up near Knifegrinder headquarters. And I know that Masters had an appointment with Peter Thayer-at his apartment-at nine on the morning he was killed.”