A Stone's Throw by James Ziskin (best story books to read .txt) 📗

“Whoa!” she shouted, then turned to locate Fadge. “That’s perfect. Don’t move a muscle, big boy. You fixed the vertical hold.”

Indeed, the television picture had stopped its jittering and was now clear and stable. Mrs. Russell whooped and hollered as the match concluded—right on schedule before the half hour—with the referee on all fours pounding his palm thrice on the canvas. Scrambling to his feet, he raised the right hand of the one who looked to me like a garbageman in baggy underwear, and proclaimed him the winner.

Our hostess pushed herself out of her chair, brushed the cracker crumbs off her lap onto the floor, and turned to face us. She was a giraffe of a woman, at least six feet tall. Somewhere between fifty and eighty years old, impossible to tell for sure. Olive Oyl’s uglier sister, Fadge later described her.

“I’m gonna have to hire you to stand there, big fella,” she said to Fadge. “Best reception I’ve ever had.”

On cue, perhaps out of self-consciousness, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and the television’s picture went back to its gyrations. Mrs. Russell shrugged an “oh well” and, cheeks hollowing, took a final pull on her cigarette before stubbing it out in the heaping ashtray—still smoldering from her last smoke—next to her chair.

“What do you two lovebirds want?” she asked. “A room?”

Fadge chirped yes before I could respond.

“Actually, no,” I said, elbowing him in the ribs.

Mrs. Russell sized us up and granted that it was probably better that way. “Not sure if I could feed this one on eight bucks a night.” She indicated Fadge with a jab of her thumb.

I snorted. Fadge didn’t find her remark funny, if his bulging eyes and grinding teeth were any indication.

“My name is Eleonora Stone, Ellie Stone. I’m a reporter for the New Holland Republic.”

“Congratulations. Now what do you want?”

“I’m making inquiries into the whereabouts of Johnny Dornan. He’s been staying here, I believe.”

“Yeah, he’s one of my roomers. Sullen little so-and-so, but he gives me good racing tips now and then. I won eleven bucks last week.”

I wondered if that might mean he was still in cahoots with gamblers. Or was he simply passing on his own insider observations?

“Have you seen him today?”

She shook her head. “It’s a big place. And he’s got the staircase outside if he don’t want to come in this way.”

“There was a fire last night,” I said. “This morning, really. About fifteen miles from here, on Sixty-Seven near the Montgomery County line.”

“What’s that got to do with Johnny?”

I exchanged a glance with Fadge. He blinked, tacitly ceding me the privilege of breaking the news.

“Two people died in the fire. And a length of racing silk was found in the rubble. The colors and pattern matched Harlequin Stables’ livery. Johnny rides for Harlequin.” I paused for effect before adding that Johnny hadn’t shown up that day at the track.

Mrs. Russell stared at me for a full ten seconds, then turned to consider the human antenna for five more. She wiped her lips with her long, dry fingers.

“Are you saying Johnny perished in the fire?” she asked finally.

“We don’t know. That’s why we’re making inquiries.”

The old lady staggered backward in a melodramatic manner, bumped into the armchair, and steadied herself against it. “I can’t believe it. Johnny’s one of my boys.” This was a change of tone from her earlier “sullen little so-and-so” remark, but I let it pass. “We’re like a family here. I even looked the other way when he snuck girls into the house.”

“Can you tell us when you last saw him?” I asked as gently as I knew how, given her newfound affection for the jockey.

She frowned and waggled her head, as if shaking off a right cross to the chin. “Must have been yesterday morning early. He was on his way over to the track as always. With Mr. Boehringer.”

“Yes, I’ve met him. Tell me, does Johnny Dornan have a car?”

“Not that I know. Mr. Boehringer drives him where he needs to go.”

“Might we have a look in his room?” I asked.

Mrs. Russell snapped back to life. Aiming a sharp glare at me, she said nothing at first. Then she seemed to be considering it.

“We won’t touch anything,” said Fadge, beating me to the punch.

“And we might find something that helps locate him,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t Johnny in the fire.”

“All right,” she said. Finding her land legs again, she pushed away from the armchair. “And if we find his wallet, he’s a week behind on his rent. I’m sure you won’t object if I settle his bill.”

Mrs. Russell led the way down a long corridor on the third floor. Jangling a large iron ring of keys, she shuffled along in house slippers. About halfway down the dim hallway, I noticed a ridge in the carpet ahead. Fearing a fall, I reached for her elbow to catch her should she trip. But she cleared the hazard like a hurdler, stepping over it without looking, as if she’d been avoiding it for decades.

Johnny Dornan’s room was the last one on the right, next to the door that gave access to the outside staircase. After an exhaustive search for the correct key, a process involving visual inspection but no actual insertion into the lock, Mrs. Russell shook her head and announced that she had the wrong key ring.

“Gotta go get the other one,” she said.

“What if we try the latch?” asked Fadge, reaching for the brass knob. The door swung open with a creak.

The landlady seemed spooked, as if there might be someone inside, so Fadge went in first. The room was empty, at least of marauders or burglars. Johnny Dornan’s place was simple, laid out in a crooked rectangle, with an unmade metal-frame bed near the window. There was a water pitcher on the nightstand, braided rug next to the bed, and faded wallpaper above the wainscoting. A simple light in a