Sue Grafton - L is for Lawless

"Can't do," he said.

"I haven't finished."

"Don't have to. Explanations won't make any difference. There's no such thing as a Master padlock key series starting with an M."

I stared at him. Ray was standing behind me, and his mother was standing next to him. I turned to Ray. "You tell him."

"You're the one saw the key. I didn't see it. I mean, I saw it, but I didn't pay attention to any numbers."

"I remember distinctly," I said to Reidel. "You have a piece of paper? I'll show you."

Clearly indulging me, he reached for a scratch pad and a pencil. I wrote the number down and pointed at it, as if that made my claim more legitimate. He didn't contradict me. He simply reached under the counter and pulled out the Master padlock index. "You find it, I'll grind it," he said. He rested his hands on the counter, leaning his weight on his arms.

I leafed through the index, feeling stubborn and perplexed. There were numerous series, some indicated by letters, some by numbers, none designated by the M I'd seen. "I swear it was a Master padlock key."

"I believe you."

"But how could a key show numbers that don't exist?"

His mouth pulled down again and he shrugged. "It was probably a duplicate."

"What difference would that make?"

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a loose key. "This is the key for a padlock back there. On this side is the manufacturer, a Master padlock in this case, like the key we're discussing. Did it look like this?"

"More or less," I said.

Helen had lost interest. She'd moved over to one of the free-standing safes, where she was perched wearily, leaning on her bat like a cane.

"Okay. This side says Master, right?"

"Right."

"On this side, you got numbers corresponding to the particular padlock the key fits. Are you following?" He looked from me to Ray, and both of us nodded like bobbleheads.

"You give me those numbers, I can look 'em up in this index and get the information I need to reproduce this key, making you a duplicate. But the duplicate isn't going to have the numbers. The duplicate's going to be a blank."

"Okay," I said, drawing the word out cautiously. I couldn't think where he meant to go with this.

"Okay. So the numbers you saw must have been stamped after the key was made."

I pointed to the scratch pad. "You're saying someone had those numbers put on this key," I said, restating it.

"Right," he said.

"But why would somebody do that?" I asked.

"Lady, you came to me. I didn't come to you," he said. When he smiled, I could see the discoloration in his teeth, dark around the gums. "Those numbers are gibberish if you're talking about a Master padlock."

"Could they be code numbers for another key manufacturer?"

"Possibly."

"So if we figured out which manufacturer, couldn't you make me this key?"

"Of course," he said. "The problem is, there's probably fifty manufacturers. You'd have to go through two, three manuals for each company, and many I don't stock. Stamped numbers or letters might also identify the key with a property or door, but there's no way to determine that from what you're telling me."

"Have you ever heard of a Lawless lock?"

He shook his head. "No such thing."

"What makes you so sure?" I said, irritated by his know-it-all attitude.

"My father owned this company and his father before him. We been in business over seventy-five years. If there'd been such a company, I'd have heard the name mentioned. It might be foreign."

I made a face, knowing there'd be no way to track that down. "Is there any chance whatsoever that Lawless was in business back in the forties and is now defunct?"

"Nope."

Ray put a hand on my arm. "Let's get out of here. It's okay. We're doing this by process of elimination."

"Just wait," I said.

"No way. You got a look on your face like you're about to bite the guy." He turned to his mother, "Hey, Ma. We're going now." He helped her to her feet, taking her arm on his right while he took my arm on his left. The pressure he exerted made his intentions clear. We were not going to stay and argue with a man who knew more than we did.

I felt my frustration rise. "There has to be some connection. I know I'm right."

"Don't worry about being right. Let's worry about getting Gilbert off our backs," he said. And then to Reidel, "Thanks for your help." He opened the door and ushered us out. "Besides, we don't need the key. Gilbert's got one."

"Well, he's not going to give it back."

"He might. If we can find the locks, he might cooperate. It'd be in his best interests."

"But what are the numbers for? I mean, M550 has to be a code, doesn't it? If not for a key, then something else."

"Quit worrying," he said.

"I do worry. Gilbert's going to want answers. You said so yourself."

Out on the street, it was surprisingly dark. The late afternoon wind whipped off the Ohio River, which I gathered was only three or four blocks away. A few isolated snowflakes sailed by. Streetlights had come on. Most of the businesses along Main were closing down, and building after building showed a blank face. The buildings were largely brick, five and six stories high, the ornamentation suggesting vintage architecture. Several ground-level stores had retracting metal gates now padlocked across the front. An occasional dim light might be visible deep in the interior, but for the most part, a chilling dark contributed to the overall look of abandonment along the street. Traffic in this part of town was thinning. The downtown itself, visible to the east, displayed a lighted skyline of twenty- to thirty-story office buildings.

We drove back to Helen's house, circling the block once for any sign of Gilbert. None of us knew what kind of car he was driving, but we kept an eye out, thinking we might spot him lingering in the shadows or sitting in a parked vehicle. Ray left his car in the cinder alleyway that ran behind his mother's place. We went through the backyard to the darkened rear entrance. None of us had thought about leaving lights on, so the house was pitch black. Ray went in first while Helen and I huddled on the back steps off the utility porch. Helen was still supporting herself with her baseball bat, which she'd apparently adopted as a permanent prop. All across the neighboring yards, I could see the towering shapes of winter-bare trees against the light-polluted November sky. Branches rattled in the wind. I was shivering by the time he'd turned on lamps and overhead lights and let us in. We waited in the kitchen while he checked the front rooms and the unused bedroom upstairs.

We'd been gone for less than an hour, but the house already seemed to smell dank with neglect. The bulb in the kitchen threw down a harsh, unflattering light. The patch of cardboard in the kitchen window showed a gap at one edge. Helen worked her way around the room, from the pantry to the refrigerator, taking out items for a makeshift supper. She moved with confidence, though I could see that she was counting steps. Ray and I pitched in, saying little or nothing, all of us unconsciously waiting for the phone to ring. Helen didn't have an answering machine, so there was no point in wondering if Henry or Gilbert had called in our absence.

We sat down to a meal of bacon and scrambled eggs, potatoes fried in bacon grease, leftover fried apples and onions, and homemade biscuits with homemade strawberry jam. Too bad she hadn't found a way to fry the biscuits instead of baking them. Despite the cholesterol overdose, everything we ate was exquisite. So this is what grandmothers do, I thought. I had, by then, abandoned any hope of getting home that day. It was still only Monday. I had all of Tuesday and Wednesday to catch a plane. In the meantime, I was tired of feeling stressed out about the issue. Why get my knickers in a twist? I'd do what I could here and be on my way.