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“Then one of them will belong to Fischer.”
Gray was wrong. Like he said, it happens. While there are multiple rooms over the butcher’s shop, only one is an apartment. The others are storage, as evidenced by the thick doors and heavy locks. Over the shop are two levels of storage, with the apartment at the top.
There’s only one way in—the rickety back stairs.
“I’ll go up and knock,” I say.
Gray opens his mouth to argue.
“Fischer has met me,” I say. “And he knows I was going through Ware’s office. While we didn’t find any sign of Fischer’s address there, he won’t know that. I just say that I came across it and followed up to be sure the poor man knew of his employer’s demise and—Oh, my goodness, aren’t you Mr. Morris?”
“At which point he grabs you and drags you into his apartment before you can raise the alarm.”
“Excellent. That’s exactly where I want to be.” I lift a hand against Gray’s scowl. “There’s a landing on the second floor. You can wait there, and if I am apprehended, you may fly to my rescue.”
“And try not to get knocked down the stairs again?”
“I didn’t say that. It would be rude. But yes, please, no more knocks to the head. I like your brain just the way it is.”
He opens his mouth. Pauses. Then says, “That is oddly flattering.”
“As it should be. I’ve never said that to anyone else.”
I head up the stairs. He follows to the second level. We aren’t too concerned about Fischer looking out back and seeing us, given the blackout-blind level of soot on the outside of the window. I was also not concerned he’d hear us chatting below over the din of shoppers.
I rap on Fischer’s door. When no one answers, I knock again and call, “Mr. Fischer? I must speak to you. It is about Mr. Ware’s bequeathments.”
Now, that should get the attention even of a spooked law clerk who may have murdered his employer. When I press my ear to the door, though, Ihear nothing. I motion for Gray over the landing, and then I pop the lock with my hairpin.
I ease open the door. Inside, with those grimy windows, it’s nearly pitch black. This time, I do look for gas lighting. That’s when Gray walks in.
“He will not have gas,” he says as he walks to a lantern.
A box of matches rests below it, and Gray lights the lantern and shines it around.
“Damn,” I say. “Someone’s a bit of a hoarder.”
The place is jammed with furniture and odds and ends, many of them broken. There’s a workbench with a few tools, but the bench is dusty.
“The kind of guy who can’t walk past a trash heap without rescuing something,” I say. “Has every intention of fixing it, but never quite gets around to it.”
From deep in the sea of rubbish comes a dull thump.
“And rats,” I say. “He’s also collecting rats.” I survey the mess. “Want to wager on how many of these things have rodent nests?” I shake my head. “First order of business: confirm this is Fischer’s apartment.”
Gray lifts an envelope from a stack of papers. On it is Fischer’s name and this address.
“You are a genius,” I say.
Another thump. I peer into the mountains and molehills of furniture.
“The rats will scatter when you draw close,” Gray says. “As we search, I would suggest banging on each object.”
I move aside an upended chair and then skirt around two stacked tables. Another thump. I follow it to an old steamer trunk at the bottom of a pile. I crouch and knock on the side. A muffled thump from within follows.
“Duncan!” I say, glancing over to see him rifling through the mail.
I climb onto an old desk to clear furniture off the pile. It’s been stacked almost to the ceiling with small bookcases. The top one is heavier than I expect, and when I heft it, my boot slips on the desk. Gray grabs me before I fall. Then he heaves the bookcase off, and we keep clearing until we’re down to the steamer trunk.
