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Do find out why people feel free to commit murder inside our house.
“Gah! I just came here to relax!”
Singe swung the door open but didn’t step out.
It was raining. Hard.
Penny thundered downstairs with umbrellas, hats, and canvas coats.
THE BENBOW HAS BEEN THERE FOR AGES. IT PUT ME IN MIND OF A CHERRYCHEEKED, dumpy little grandmother of a sort I’d once had myself. It was warm, smelled of hardwood smoke and ages of cookery in which somebody particularly favored garlic. It had settled comfortably into itself. It was a good place occasionally disgraced by the custom of a bad person.
The right side, coming in from the street, was a dining area, not large, empty now. Most guests preferred taking their meals in their rooms. To the left stood a fleet of saggy, comfortable old chairs and divans escorted by shopworn side tables. Three old men took up space on three sides of a table there, two playing chess while the third grunted unwanted advice. There was no bar. Management preferred not to draw custom from the street.
The stair to the guest rooms lay straight ahead, guarded by a persnicketylooking little man with rodentlike front teeth. His hair had migrated to the sides of his head. His appearance begged for him to be called Bunny or Squirrel.
He rose from beside a small, cluttered table, gulping when Penny took off through the dining area.
His voice proved to be a high squeak.
Penny paid no attention.
Bunny sputtered. T
hen he recognized Singe for what she was. His sputter went liquid.
I presented my invitation.
“Oh. Of course. I didn’t actually expect you.” He threw a despairing glance after Penny, then another at Singe. It pained him to say, “Please come with me.” There is a lot of prejudice against ratfolk.
Miss Grünstrasse occupied a suite taking up the west half of the third floor. I huffed and puffed and wondered if I was too old to start exercising. Bunny got his workout by knocking.
The blonde opened up. She stepped aside. For all the warmth she showed she could have been baked from clay. Her eyes seemed infinitely empty.
Singe went first. I followed. The door shut in Bunny’s face. The girl threw the bolt, moved to the left side of the sitting room. She stood at parade rest, but with hands folded in front. She wore a different outfit without the coat. Her sense of style had not changed.
“Ah. Mr. Garrett. I was not sure you would respond. I do appreciate the courtesy. Indeed, I do.”
I did a double take.
“Sir? Is something wrong?” Fury smoldered in the glance she cast Singe’s way.
“Sorry. Just startled.” In low light she resembled my prospective grandmother-in-law, one of the most unpleasant women alive.
This one was huge and ugly and smelled bad, too.
The smell was a result of diet and questionable personal habits.
Her accent was heavier than Rock’s, with a different meter.
“Come, Mr. Garrett. Be comfortable. Let us chat while Squattle prepares dinner.” She spoke slowly. Each word, though individually mangled, could be understood from context.
I sat. Singe remained standing. There were no suitable chairs. Neither did she shed her coat, which was psychological warfare directed at the niece. The blonde adjusted her position after I settled.
“Now, then, Mr. Garrett. The Rock Truck, Rose Purple, visited you today. He was, without doubt, a fount of fabrication. He will have laid his own crimes off on others.”
Rock was my client, in his own mind. I volunteered nothing.
“So. Very well, then, sir. Very well. Eliza and I have come to your marvelous city to reclaim a precious relic.”
