Legends

Depositing her satchel on the floor, the woman slipped out of her raincoat and carefully folded it over the banister. She was wearing running sneakers, tailored trousers with pleats at the waist and a man’s shirt that buttoned from left to right. Martin saw that the three top buttons were open, revealing a triangle of pale skin on her chest. There was no sign of an undergarment. The observation made him suck in his cheeks; it occurred to him that the bee stings might be having some effect after all.

The woman wheeled away from Martin and wandered into the pool parlor, her eyes taking in the faded green felt on the two old tables, the moving company cartons sealed with masking tape piled in a corner next to the rowing machine, the overhead fan turning with such infinite slowness that it seemed to impart its lethargic rhythm to the space it was ventilating. This was obviously a realm where time slowed down. “You don’t look like someone who smokes cigars,” she ventured when she spotted the mahogany humidor with the built in thermometer on the pool table that served as a desk.

“I don’t. It’s for fuses.”

“Fuses as in electricity?”

“Fuses as in bombs.”

She opened the lid. “These look like paper shotgun cartridges.”

“Fuses, paper cartridges need to be kept dry.”

She threw him an anxious look and went on with her inspection. “You’re not crawling in creature comforts,” she noted, her words drifting back over her shoulder as she took a turn around the wide floor-boards.

Martin thought of all the safe houses he had lived in, furnished in ancient Danish modern; he suspected the CIA must have bought can openers and juice makers and toilet bowl brushes by the thousands because they were the same in every safe house. And because they were safe houses, none of them had been perfectly safe. “It’s a mistake to possess comfortable things,” he said now. “Soft couches, big beds, large bath tubs, the like. Because if nothing is comfortable you don’t settle in; you keep moving. And if you keep moving, you have a better chance of staying ahead of the people who are trying to catch up with you.” Flashing a wrinkled smile, he added, “This is especially true for those of us who limp.”

Looking through the open door into the back room, the woman caught a glimpse of crumpled newspapers around the Army cot. “What’s with all the newspapers on the floor?” she asked.

Hearing her speak, Martin was reminded how satisfyingly musical an ordinary human voice could be. “I picked up that little trick from The Maltese Falcon—fellow named Thursby kept newspapers around his bed so no one could sneak up on him when he slept.” His patience was wearing thin. “I learned everything I know about being a detective from Humphrey Bogart.”

The woman came full circle and stopped in front of Martin; she studied his face but couldn’t tell if he was putting her on. She was having second thoughts about hiring someone who had learned the detective business from Hollywood movies. “Is it true detectives were called gumshoes?” she said, eyeing his bare feet. She backed up to the pool table covered with muzzle-loading firearms and powder horns and Union medals pinned to a crimson cushion, trying to figure out what fiction she could come up with that would get her out of there without hurting his feelings. At a loss for words, she absently ran her fingers along the brass telescopic sight on an antique rifle. “My father collects guns from the Great Patriotic War,” she remarked.

“Uh-huh. That makes your father Russian. In America we call it World War Two. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch the weapons.” He added, “That one’s an English Whitworth. It was the rifle of choice of Confederate sharpshooters. The paper cartridges in the humidor are for the Whitworth. During the Civil War Whitworth cartridges were expensive, but a skilled sniper could hit anything he could see with the weapon.”

“You some sort of Civil War buff?” she asked.

“My alter ego is,” he said. “Look, we’ve made enough small talk. Bite the bullet, lady. You must have a name.”

Her left palm drifted up to cover the triangle of skin on her chest. “I’m Estelle Kastner,” she announced. “The precious few friends I have call me Stella.”

“Who are you?” Martin persisted, quarrying for deeper layers of identity than a name.

The question startled her; there was clearly more to him than met the eye, which raised the prospect that he might be able to help her after all. “Listen, Martin Odum, there are no shortcuts. You want to find out who I am, you’re going to have to put in time.”

Martin settled back against the banister. “What is it you hope I can do for you?”

“I hope you can find my sister’s husband, who’s gone AWOL from his marriage.”

“Why don’t you try the police? They have a missing person’s bureau that specializes in this sort of thing.”

“Because the police in question are in Israel. And they have more pressing things to do than hunt for missing husbands.”