Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“Not all of it, but... yes. I knew. Believe me, Dad’s paid dearly for what happened. I’ve had to sit up all night with him sometimes, ghosts all around him, taunting him, reducing him to a blubbering child.”

“I imagine the families of those poor people had some bad nights, too.”

“What could I do, Pia? Turn in my own father? I know you can’t make a thing like this right, but we did what we could. Made sure the families were taken care of, paid tuition for—”

“Tuition? My God, he’s a murderer! And you shielded him.”

“For my family. For my son. Even for you.”

“No, not for me, R.J. I never asked you for anything and I wouldn’t take it now as a gift. I’m leaving. But there is one last reparation you can make. Pay off Mr. Shea and his men. I want nothing more to do with that... terrible place. Or with you. Ever!”

She stalked out, closing the door behind her with an icy click. The sound couldn’t have been more final if she’d slammed it off its hinges.

Brodie rose as well. “I’ll have to confer with the prosecutor about charges, Mr. Belknap. In the meantime, don’t leave town. Keep yourself available. Clear?”

And then R.J. and I were alone. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like a very long time. Eventually R.J. pulled himself together. He asked how much it would take to settle our account and I gave him a figure. And he wrote me a check. Wages and expenses for my entire crew, including the men from Idlewild. Eight months’ pay. Just like that.

R.J.’s a very wealthy man, with a magnificent home and political power.

But I wouldn’t trade places with him for anything.

The bodies from the water tank — Coley Barnes, Misirlou, and their friends — were laid properly to rest in a hillside cemetery overlooking Lake Michigan, the Reverend James Jackson officiating. He delivered a moving graveside eulogy for his long-lost mom and the others. He even forgave old Cy for his part in their deaths.

Pia’s gone home to Detroit to start her life over. The local prosecutor made some noise about charging Cy and R.J., but I doubt he’ll push it. The evil is too old, and time is taking its own vengeance anyway.

What goes around, comes around.

Old Cy has disappeared into the past completely, talking only with the dead. Pleading for forgiveness. His victims are waiting for him on the dark side of forever, and before long he’ll join them there.

If R.J. concealed his father’s crime to protect his family, then seeing that family destroyed is probably punishment enough. His hopes for political office are gone, vanished in the smoke of the Gin Mill fire. He still owns most of Malverne, but the townspeople spit when they hear his name.

As for me, I came here looking for a job that would keep my crew working through the winter. And I found it. But not the one I wanted.

After R.J. paid me off for the unfinished remodeling job on the Gin Mill, he hired us again. For one final service.

We’re going to do what Puck suggested that first day, dynamite the Belknap Building. Knock it down, load it into dumpsters, and haul it away.

With the fire and water damage to the roof, saving it was an iffy proposition. And anyway, it’s the Belknap Building, and R.J. wants it gone. And I can’t say I blame him.

But despite all that’s happened, it’s not a job I’ll enjoy.

In foreign countries, some buildings are a thousand years old and more. Here in America we trash our heritage like kids stomping sandcastles.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a builder. And proud of it. I like construction sites, the whine of power saws, the slam of nail guns. The fresh, clean scent of pine lumber. I love seeing new buildings rise straight and true, knowing I had a hand in creating them.

But I’ll be sorry to see the old Gin Mill fall.

There was something special about that place. Everybody felt it. Maybe because so much happened there. Good times, bad times. Music and passion and violence. And death.

A building like the Gin Mill is more than cement blocks and drywall. Over time, the lives it shelters become as much a part of it as its very bricks. When we destroy it, we lose more than a structure. We lose our last contact with the ghosts and memories that linger there.

Scientists might laugh, but anybody with feelings knows what I’m talking about.

Some buildings have souls. Characters so strong you can actually feel them. Like the Gin Mill.

I sensed it when I first stepped into that empty, light-dappled ballroom.

And heard it sigh.

Sure, maybe it was just the wind. Or an air vent opening. But I don’t think so. Not anymore.

I think the Gin Mill stood silent and empty all those years.

Waiting.

For me.

There Are No Pockets in Our Graveclothes by Bertil Falk

Translated from the Swedish by the author.

Passport to Crime