Murder in Mount Holly, Page 3

  It took a whole afternoon in the wing chair to come up with the solution. When it finally occurred to her she jumped up from the chair, said “Happy days,” and then smugly announced: “I’ll advertise.”

  She did just that. She had plenty of room in the house. Why not take in another boarder? She decided to place an ad in the Mount Holly Chickadee. Her ad in the classified section of the paper was characteristic of her sweet disposition.

  COMFY ROOM FOR PEANUTS

  Large homey room, warm, for single male, hooked rug, big quilt, just perfect for student who wants all the comforts and doesn’t mind sharing “boy’s room.” Kitchen priv., tender loving care. Can’t miss. Cheap. Nice. Call after 6. Tel. 65355.

  She just couldn’t keep it down to twenty-five words. It would have been a crying shame to do that.

  She knew that it would click, too. Just as the ad which had fascinated Mr. Gibbon had clicked. But still she ran the ad for three days “just,” as she said to Mr. Gibbon, “for the sheer heck of it.”

  Mr. Gibbon grunted something in return (he was out of sorts) and went on with his paper bags. He was now used to Miss Ball, and on top of it had been in the army. Miss Ball’s fling with Juan came as no great surprise. Things like that happened every day when you were in the army. Like when you find out your best buddy is a crumby stooge, or the C. 0. is a pansy, or your best girl ran off with your best friend and never wrote back except to say, Dearest, I’m ­going to make a clean breast of it. It was all in the army, all in the game. As for Miss Ball and Juan, that dago bastard, Mr. Gibbon really didn’t give a rat’s ass what happened.

  He knew that she, Miss Ball, had just had that thing, that operation that women had sometimes. He couldn’t blame her. Women always did screwy things like making their hair navy blue (Miss Ball’s was “Starry Silver”), or putting lard on their faces, or even running off with the crazy Puerto Rican janitor at the school. He was an army man through and through, and understood these things like other people couldn’t understand them, since they had never had the privilege of going out and fighting, really fighting, with their guts, for their country. How could they know? But Mr. Gibbon knew damn well what was going on in Miss Ball’s mind. She was having her fling. He had seen a lot of folks come over the hill in his time, a damn sight more than a lot of people he knew that were always shooting their mouths off about human nature and such and such. He had seen people lose their marbles, too. Right in the same foxhole Mr. Gibbon had seen a man lose nearly every one of his marbles. But Mr. Gibbon had not done a damn thing because he had seen a lot of people come over the hill. He had seen guys on leave. Guys that had been in the trenches for days, months even. They had to get it out of their system.

  Miss Ball? She had to get it out of her system too. So what if she was near sixty? Did that mean she didn’t have anything in her system maybe? Like hell. Gibbon could testify to the exact opposite of that little theory. You could bet your furlough on that. What made people think that young folks were different from old folks? That was something Mr. Gibbon could not understand.

  What went for Mr. Gibbon went for Miss Ball. They were friends, comrades. Mr. Gibbon said nothing and that was good enough for Miss Ball. If Mr. Gibbon had told her one time he had told her a hundred: You’re young at heart.

  “You’re young too,” Miss Ball cheeped, when Mr. Gibbon gave his consent to the unsavory business with Juan.

  “Not me, Toots,” Mr. Gibbon said gruffly.

  Miss Ball had said he could have it his way. And he did have it his way. He could see what was going on in Miss Ball’s head, thinking all those crazy things. But still, he knew she was in no danger. It was her way. She was young at heart; why else did she stay up late reading all those movie magazines? But you’d never catch Mr. Gibbon making a damn fool out of himself with any two-bit big-assed movie queen (both Miss Ball and the magazines called them “starlets”).

  Miss Ball believed that she was a starlet, although a little older than most of the other starlets. After her hysterectomy she believed it even more. And that was when Juan came onstage and left his broom behind. A few months later she placed the ad. It was all nice.

  The ad clicked, as Miss Ball had predicted, to Mr. Gibbon.

  After one day the phone rang.

  The voice was young. A young gentleman. Perfect.

  “Herbie what?” Miss Ball asked.

  “Gneiss,” said Herbie. He spelled it out and then pronounced it.

  This bewildered Miss Ball. She asked him his nationality.

  “American, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “American.”

  “We’re all Americans in this house,” said Miss Ball triumph­antly. “Me and Mr. Gibbon—he’s the most American one of all. You’ll like him lots.”

  “I’m sure I will,” said Herbie.

  Herbie went on to inquire about the “boy’s room” that was mentioned in the ad. What exactly was the boy’s room and who would he have to share it with?

  “I should have explained,” said Miss Ball. “I’m a teacher. I teach kindergarten in the basement of Mount Holly High. We call the boy’s room the boy’s room. I should have explained. How silly of me!” She giggled.

  “Oh,” said Herbie.

  “What do you do?”

  “Well, I’m not working at present. But I think I’ll be working at Kant-Brake. The toy factory.”

  “Holy mackerel! That’s where Mr. Gibbon works! What a co-in-cidence!”

  “Fabulous,” said Herbie dryly.

  “Why, you can’t turn me down now!” Miss Ball said with glee. “Mr. Gibbon’ll be sore as a boil if you don’t come.”

  “I see,” said Herbie.

  “We’ve got something in com-mon!” exclaimed Miss Ball as if she had found her son, lost these many years.

  “So we do,” said Herbie.

  “I’ll expect you for supper. At six. Don’t be a minute late, Mr. Gibbon doesn’t like cold greens.”

  “Who is this Mr. Gibbon?” Herbie asked. But Miss Ball had already hung up.

  A new tenant! It was like a gift from above. He will provide. That was Miss Ball’s motto. He always provided. First the operation, then Juan, then Herbie, who worked at the very same place as Mr. Gibbon! Wonders never did cease as long as He provided in the moment of need. He could positively move mountains. Good Old Providence.

  In Miss Ball’s case He had moved something considerably more spherical than a mountain. He did just that from His Dwelling Place Up There where things were white mostly, soft, and didn’t cost a cent. It really was as simple as all that. If only people knew what the very simple secret was: make yourself like a little child. You had to make yourself tiny and really believe in that Big Man Up There. Making herself like a starlet was, in her mind, the same thing as making herself like a little child, pleasing and fresh as a daisy to The Big Fellow In The Sky. And why not a starlet? Especially since she had a natural bent in that direction, a gift, so to speak. It was all the same. He knew what was in your heart. You couldn’t fool Him.

  So Miss Ball got a new tenant, Herbie, and she was able to raise Juan’s allowance, and she found that she was better natured to her kindergarten. Everything was rosy. All the money that Herbie would pay for room and board Miss Ball would turn over to Juan. It all came out in the end. She was no Jew. Why should she try to make a buck on a kid that didn’t have beans to start with? That wasn’t her way. Not Miss Ball. Maybe some people, but not Miss Ball.

  4

  “So what, he’s nice,” Mr. Gibbon said. Herbie had not come at six. Mr. Gibbon had his cold greens and grumbled about them, and now, at breakfast, he was still grumbling. Herbie had arrived late and Mr. Gibbon had heard the racket. He was awakened from a vicious dream: a Dark Stranger was trying to steal his paper bags. The Dark Stranger had snatched nearly every on
e of them. It was a Negro, a tall one, who wanted the bags to put watermelons in. Mr. Gibbon had fought with him, and during the fight woke to the noise of Herbie banging the bureau drawers in the next room.

  “That’s his name.” Miss Ball spelled it out and pronounced it. “Gneiss.”

  “It sounds Jewish if you ask me.”

  “Everything sounds Jewish if you say it a certain way,” said Miss Ball, trying for a little wisdom. “But he’s not. He’s not Jewish.”

  “Probably changed it.”

  “He said he’s American.”

  “All Jews think they’re Americans. Everybody does. That’s the only fault I can find with this country. Everybody thinks they’re so damn big. Like this Gneiss.”

  “Don’t be so cranky. You don’t even know him.”

  “You’re the one who’s cranky.”

  “He’s okay. He looks tip-top. Very clean-looking.”

  “That’s not like you, Miss Ball. Sticking up for a Jew.”

  “I’m not sticking up for a Jew. I’m sticking up for my new boarder.”

  “He’s a Jew.”

  “He’s not. He’s a fine young man with a remarkably small nose.”

  “What’s the difference. They’ll take over the country, like everyone else, I suppose. They’ll come.” Mr. Gibbon heaved a sigh. “But I hope to God they don’t come in my lifetime.”

  “Shush,” said Miss Ball. “You’re big and strong. You’ve got a lot of time left.”

  “I hate that expression you’ve got a lot of time left. Like you’re waiting to punch the time clock and drop dead.”

  “He must be dead tired. He came by bus all the way from Holly Heights.”

  “Used to have a guy in the platoon named Gnefsky, or some­thing like that. He was a Jew.”

  “He’s not a Jew.”

  “Don’t tell me! He was in my platoon, not yours. I should know.”

  “I mean Herbie, the new boy.”

  Mr. Gibbon muttered. He couldn’t grit his teeth. He didn’t have enough of them to grit.

  “He wanted to know what the boy’s room was. Isn’t that precious?”

  “In the army we used to call it the crapper. He probably doesn’t know what that means either.”

  “Now you just be careful what you say,” said Miss Ball. She clapped her hands and then said, “Oh, I’m so excited! It’s like opening night!”

  “He probably smokes in bed.”

  “It reminds me of the day I saw the playback of my movie. That was in . . . let’s see . . .”

  For, the next few minutes Miss Ball relived a story she had told so many times that Mr. Gibbon was actually interested to see what changes she had made since the last time he heard it. There she was, Miss Ball in her first starring role, madly in love with the dashing special agent. He was an undercover man but, unlike most undercover men, everyone knew him and feared him. He was big and strong, liked good wine and luscious women and was always forking over money to flocks of ragged stool-pigeons who tipped him off. He dressed fit to kill and was very well-mannered. And when the spying was over for the day he came back to his sumptuous apartment and slapped Miss Ball around. When he got tired of slapping her around he nuzzled her, and bit her on the neck, and then threw her a gold lamé dress and they went out on the town where, in the middle of their expensive dinner, they were set upon by the squat shaven-headed crooks. Her undercover agent boyfriend was a real bastard, but you couldn’t help liking the guy. In the end he ran out on Miss Ball. To do good.

  “Here he comes now,” said Miss Ball to Mr. Gibbon.

  Mr. Gibbon turned away and began staring at the loudspeaker of the radio.

  “Good morning.” It was Herbie.

  “You’re early,” said Miss Ball. “You’re an early bird.”

  “Shh.” Mr. Gibbon did not turn. He seemed to be shushing the radio.

  “I try,” Herbie whispered.

  “That’s what counts.”

  “Shut up,” said Mr. Gibbon. He still did not turn away from the radio, and the radio happened to be playing the National Anthem. As soon as he said it the anthem ended, and the effect was quite incongruous. Shut up and then the end of that glorious song.

  “Your first breakfast,” said Miss Ball.

  “Yes,” said Herbie. “My first breakfast.”

  “Did you ever shoot a machine-gun?” Miss Ball leaned toward Herbie.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “A machine-gun.” She chewed her toast. “Did you ever shoot one?”

  “No. Why?” Herbie twitched.

  “Just asking, that’s all.”

  “Did you ever shoot a machine-gun?”

  “No.”

  “But you’d like to shoot one. Is that it?”

  “No.” Miss Ball laughed. “Really no.”

  “You’re interested in guns? You collect them or . . .”

  “Gosh,” said Miss Ball, “I didn’t mean to start anything. I was just wondering out loud, just making conversation. Idle conversation I guess you’d call it.”

  “That’s what I call it,” Mr. Gibbon said, turning full face upon Miss Ball.

  Mr. Gibbon’s face was a study in hardened stupidity. It had an old hungry look about it.

  Mr. Gibbon’s lips kept moving, as if he were silently cursing Miss Ball’s idle conversation or finishing his egg. This made his nose—which was pointed and hooked—move also. Mr. Gibbon was wearing a khaki tie, a gray shirt—a sort of uniform.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Miss Ball said petulantly.

  “I’m talking to you,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I went through three wars just so’s I could sit here in peace and quiet and listen to my favorite song. And with you blathering I can’t hear myself think, let alone listen to my favorite . . .”

  “We have a new boarder.”

  “. . . song,” Mr. Gibbon finished. He recovered and said to Herbie, “You been in the army?”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “What?”

  “I said, no what?”

  “No what?” Herbie shook his head. “What what?”

  “You haven’t been in no army,” Mr. Gibbon roared.

  “I didn’t say I had, did I?”

  “Didn’t have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why,” Herbie caught on, “sir?”

  “’S’better. Sounds a hell of a lot better too. Reminds me of a fella we had in basic. A buddy of mine. He caught on. Didn’t sir nobody.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He learned how.”

  “How did he learn,” said Herbie, “sir?”

  “They fixed him up real good. Then he learned.”

  “Fixed him up?” asked Miss Ball, suddenly becoming involved in the conversation.

  “Beat the living stuffings out of him.”

  “That will be just about enough of that,” said Miss Ball.

  Mr. Gibbon had gone on eating, however, and did not hear. He chewed slowly, his fork upraised, his eyes vacant, but staring in the general direction of Herbie, as if he had just missed a good chance to beat the living stuffings out of Herbie.

  “Well!” Miss Ball said, folding her hands and grinning into Herbie’s face. “You come from Holly Heights?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never been there myself, but they say it’s nice.”

  “It’s very nice. Like a lot of the nice places it’s very, very nice.”

  “You look like a reader.”

  “I like to read very much.”

  “I was never a great reader,” Mr. Gibbon offered, in order to signal that he was no longer interested in beating up Herbie.
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  “What does your daddy do?”

  Herbie cringed. He had forgotten for a while that he had a daddy—a father, that is. He thought of the man and then said, “My daddy—my father—was in tools.”

  “Was in tools?”

  “He used to make them. He’s dead now, so he doesn’t make them anymore.”

  “There’s good money in tools,” said Mr. Gibbon. “And there’s still a bundle to be made in tools.”

  “I was never interested in tools myself,” said Herbie. “People say I don’t take after my father. Maybe they’re right. I don’t care about tools, although I realize they’re important in their own way—just like people are . . .”

  “Hell of a lot of money to be made in tools. Specially in machine tools.”

  “It’s almost time for school,” said Miss Ball, looking at her Snooz-Alarm, which she carried around with her in the house.

  “Your old man make machine tools?”

  “Nearly time, I said,” Miss Ball announced again.

  “You don’t mind interrupting an intelligent conversation, do you?” Mr. Gibbon was angry at Miss Ball. He had the habit of never saying anyone’s name. He glared in the proper direction instead, to identify the person.

  Miss Ball faced him. Then she patted Herbie on the arm and said, “Don’t you worry about old grumpy here. That’s his way of making friends.”

  “If I feel like grousing, I grouse,” said Mr. Gibbon truculently. “I don’t care what people think. I been through three wars.”

  “Which three?” Herbie asked.

  “Which three!” Mr. Gibbon almost choked. “You hear that?” Mr. Gibbon faced Miss Ball. “That’s a laugh.” He laughed and then turned back to his breakfast and muttered once again, “Which three. For cry-eye.”

  “I’d like to talk to you some time about war,” said Herbie.

  “Any time,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I’m always prepared.”

  “He’ll talk your ear off,” said Miss Ball.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, frankly.”

  “He always does it. It’s his way.” Miss Ball spoke as if Mr. Gibbon were not at the table. But he was at the table, studying the horror-mask cutout on the back of the cereal box.