Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

“And how do I know you’re with the insurance company?” It was a halfhearted snipe but a valid one.

“You can call the company and ask for Robin Bessinger in the arson division. He’ll vouch for me.” I’d have to get something in writing from them-I’d better walk a copy of my contract for services over tomorrow and pick up a letter of authorization.

Her eye strayed to the phone, but she seemed to decide it was too much trouble to fight me any further. “Okay. Ask what you want, but you’ll never find any proof connecting Mr. Seligman to that fire.”

“What’s your position with the company, Mrs. Donnelly?”

“I’m the office manager.” Her face was braced in fierce lines to deflect any attack on Mr. Seligman.

“And that means you…?”

“People call in with complaints, I get the building super to check them out, or the property manager, whoever is in charge. I arrange for bids if any work has to get done, that kind of thing. Detectives come in asking questions, I talk to them.”

It was an unexpected flash of humor; I grinned appreciatively. “How many properties are there?”

She ticked them off on her fingers-the one on Ashland, the one on Forty-seventh, and so on, seven altogether, ending with the Indiana Arms. I noted the addresses so I could drive by them, but judging by the locations, none of them was a big money-maker.

No, rents weren’t down any. Yes, they used to have a lot more people in the office, that was when Mr. Seligman was younger-he used to buy and sell properties all the time and he needed more staff to do that. Now it was just her and him, a team like they’d always been, and you wouldn’t find a warmer-hearted person, not if you looked through the suburbs as well as the city.

“Great.” I got up from the edge of the desk and rubbed the sore spot where the metal had cut into my thigh. “By the way, where do you bank-not you personally, Seligman Properties?”

The wary look returned to her face but she answered readily enough-the Edgewater National.

As I was opening the gate something else occurred to me. “Who will take over the business for Mr. Seligman? Does he have any children involved in it?”

She glared at me again. “I wouldn’t dream of prying into such a personal matter. And don’t go bothering him- he’s never really recovered from Fanny’s death.”

I let the gate click behind me. Wouldn’t dream of it, indeed. She probably knew every thought Seligman had had for twenty years, even more so now his wife was dead. As I urged the door over the loose linoleum, I wondered idly about Mrs. Donnelly’s own children, whom the old man had so generously educated.

Before getting into the car I found a phone on the corner to call Robin. He was in a meeting-the perennial location of insurance managers-but his secretary promised to have a letter of authorization waiting for me in the morning.

The afternoon was wearing on; I hadn’t had a proper meal all day, just some toast with Mr. Contreras’s foul coffee. It’s hard to think when you’re hungry-the demands of the stomach become paramount. I found a storefront Polish restaurant where they gave me a bowl of thick cabbage soup and a plate of homemade rye bread. That was so good that I had some raspberry cake and a cup of overbaked coffee before moving farther north to find Mr. Seligman.

Estes is a quiet residential street in Rogers Park. Seligman lived in an unprepossessing brick house east of Ridge. The small front yard hadn’t been much tended during the long hot summer; large clumps of crabgrass and weeds had taken over the straggly grass. The walk was badly broken, not the ideal path for an elderly person, especially when the Chicago winter set in.

The stairs weren’t in much better shape-I sidestepped a major hole on the third riser just in time to keep from twisting my ankle. A threadbare mat lay in front of the door. I skidded on its shiny surface when I rang the bell.

I could hear the bell echoing dully behind the heavy front door. Nothing happened. I waited a few minutes and rang again. After another wait I began to wonder if I’d passed Seligman somewhere on Ridge. Just as I was getting ready to leave, though, I heard the rasp of bolts sliding back. It was a clumsy, laborious process. When the final lock came apart the door opened slowly inward and an old man blinked at me across the threshold.

He must have been about Mr. Contreras’s age, but where my neighbor had a vitality and curiosity that kept him fit, Mr. Seligman seemed to have retreated from life. His face had slipped into a series of soft, downward creases that slid into the high collar of his faded beige turtleneck. Over that he wore a torn cardigan, one side of which was partly tucked into his pajama pants. He did not look like the mastermind of an arson and fraud ring.

“Yes?” His voice was soft and husky.

I forced a smile to my lips and explained my errand.

“You’re with the police, young lady?”

“I’m a private investigator. Your insurance company has hired me to investigate the fire.”

“The insurance? My insurance is all paid, I’m sure of that, but you’d have to check with Rita.” As he shook his head, bewildered, I caught a glimpse of a hearing aid in his left ear.

I raised my voice and tried to speak clearly. “I know your insurance is paid. The company hired me. Ajax wants me to find out who burned down your hotel.”

“Oh. Who burned it down.” He nodded five or six times. “I have no idea. It was a great shock, a very great shock. I’ve been expecting the police or the fire department to come talk to me, but we pay our taxes for nothing these days. Let it burn to the ground and don’t do nothing to stop it, then don’t do nothing to catch the people who did it.”

“I agree,” I put in. “That’s why Ajax hired me to investigate it for them. I wonder if we could go inside and talk it over.”

He studied me carefully, decided I didn’t look like a major menace, and invited me in. As soon as he’d shut the door behind me and fastened one of the five locks, I began to wish I’d finished the conversation on the stoop. The smell, combined of must, unwashed dishes, and stale grease, seemed to seep from the walls and furniture. I didn’t know life could exist in such air.

The living room where he took me was dark and chilly. I tried not to curse when I ran into a low table, but as I backed away from it I caught my left leg on some heavy metal object and couldn’t help swearing.

“Careful, there, young lady, these were all Fanny’s things and I don’t want them damaged.”

“No, sir,” I said meekly, waiting for him to finish fumbling with a light before trying to move any farther. When the heavily fringed lamp sprang into life, I saw that I’d tripped on a set of fire irons mysteriously placed in the middle of the room. As there was no fireplace perhaps that was the ideal spot for them. I threaded my way past the rest of the obstacles and sat gingerly on the edge of an overstuffed armchair. My rear sank deep within its soft, dusty upholstery.

Mr. Seligman sat on a matching couch that was close by, if you discounted an empty brass birdcage hanging between us. “Now what is it you want, young lady?”

He was hard of hearing and depressed but clearly not mentally impaired. When he took in the gist of my remarks his sagging cheeks mottled with color.

“My insurance company thinks I burned down my own building? What do I pay rates for? I pay my taxes and the police don’t help me, I pay my insurance and my company insults me-”

“Mr. Seligman,” I cut in, “you’ve lived in Chicago a long time, right? Your whole life? Well, me too. You know as well as I do that people here torch their own property every day just to collect on the insurance. I’m happy to think you’re not one of them, but you can’t blame the company for wanting to make sure.”