The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

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      Mueller grabbed the envelope. It came loose from the little man’s fingers and the little man pawed futilely, trying to get it back. Lindsey thought he was going to burst into tears. He whirled angrily. Mueller was turning the envelope over, eyeing it with casual curiosity. The little man made a sound that was half a whimper and half a moan.

      Lindsey felt his face growing hot. He took Mueller’s wrist in his fingers and dug into the veins. With his other hand he lifted the envelope and returned it to the little man. He said, “You’d better keep this in your pocket, sir.”

      He put his arm around the little man’s shoulders and guided him into the office. The little man felt as light and as dry as an empty corn husk. Lindsey expected him to crackle as he walked. He guided him to a leather couch that had stood against the office wall for longer than Lindsey could remember. He asked the man if he’d like a drink or a snack and the little man said, “Thank you, sir, I would.”

      Lindsey watched the little man out of the corner of his eye while he gathered a sandwich and a cup of punch for him. If Mueller moved on him again, Lindsey was prepared to drop the paper plate and set himself between the two. But Mueller only glowered.

      The little man took the paper plate gratefully, and set it down on the broad leather arm of the couch. He lifted the sandwich and painstakingly tore a corner from it. He put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. When he swallowed, the Adam’s apple bobbed in his thin neck. Lindsey wondered if he had any teeth. He took a sip of the punch.

      He looked at Lindsey and said, “I trust there is no intoxicant in this?”

      Lindsey smiled. “No, sir.” He pulled over a computer chair and faced the old man. “Now, sir, what was this about Global National, uh—”

      “Guarantee Life.”

      “Right.”

      “And the library.”

      The old man said, “I tried to locate the company through the pages of the telephone directory, but they were not listed. I called directory assistance but they were unable to assist me.”

      His voice was dry, too, and fragile. He spoke as if he had just enough strength to move the air over his vocal cords.

      He said, “And then I thought I might learn something from the library. A very helpful young lady assisted me. And here I am.”

      Lindsey said, “You might have tried the State Insurance Commissioner in Sacramento.”

      Elmer Mueller’s rough voice said, “Maybe he still ought to.” He put his hand on Lindsey’s shoulder. Waves of menthol smeared themselves onto Lindsey. Normally Lindsey worked in his shirtsleeves, but in honor of Ms. Wilbur’s retirement party he’d kept his tan jacket on in the office.

      He said, “Leave the man alone, Elmer.”

      Mueller said, “He knows we don’t take visitors here. You know it too. What, since you’re a big shot out of Denver, you too good to follow the rules like the rest of us?”

      “Elmer, I’m just trying to help this man.” He dropped his voice, hoping that the little man wouldn’t be hurt. “For heaven’s sake, Elmer, look at him. He must be ninety years old. What do you want to do?”

      Mueller said, “I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to call Security and have the geezer gently but firmly removed from the premises. What if he dies in our office?”

      A woman’s hand separated Lindsey and Mueller. “Break it up, boys.” Ms. Wilbur squatted in front of the old man. “Are you all right, sir? What’s your name?”

      The old man peered at Ms. Wilbur. Lindsey wondered what the world looked like through those ancient eyes. Did the old man see everything through layers of gauze? Did everyone acquire the soft focus of an aging romantic star photographed through a smear of petroleum jelly?

      “My name is Edward Joseph MacReedy.” He turned from Ms. Wilbur to address Lindsey again. “The librarian suggested contacting the Insurance Commissioner but there was no record in Sacramento of the Global National Guarantee Life Company.”

      Ms. Wilbur said, “I remember them.”

      For once Lindsey and Mueller harmonized. “You do?”

      Ms. Wilbur blushed. “Not personally.”

      They waited.

      “You wouldn’t recall old Mr. Woodstreet.”

      Lindsey and Mueller looked at each other. It happened again. “No.”

      Ms. Wilbur smiled. “He was here when I started. He retired—oh, it must be thirty years ago. And he was an old man. Dead now, I’m sure. He was the unofficial office historian. He here forever. Used to talk about the old days. I mean the old days for him. The 1920s, ’30s. He used to talk about Woodrow Wilson, Aimee Semple MacPherson, Red Grange. Used to talk about how President Harding died in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, thought he was murdered.”

      Mueller said, “Spare me, please. What’s that got to do with this one?” He gestured toward the old man.

      “Mr. Woodstreet used to talk about the Depression, about the companies that went belly up. It’s funny, I can remember him sitting on that same couch where Mr. MacReedy is sitting, talking about Herbert Hoover and Upton Sinclair and the Depression. International Surety wasn’t International Surety then.”

      Mueller said, “Don’t tell me this company was Global, whatever, National Guarantee Life.”

      “Not quite.” Ms. Wilbur took Mr. MacReedy’s paper plate and cup from him and set them on a desk. The old man had dozed off and was wheezing gently in his sleep. Ms. Wilbur said, “International Surety used to be just Surety Insurance. They took over half a dozen failing companies back in the Thirties. It was a crazy time in the industry. Big companies gobbled up little companies and then bigger companies gobbled them up.”

      Lindsey said, “Times change.”

      Ms. Wilbur said, “The old Global National Guarantee got tangled up in two or three mergers and takeovers and finally disappeared into Surety Insurance.”

      Mueller grunted. “So you mean, this is our policy?”

      Ms. Wilbur said, “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s up to Legal.”

      Lindsey said, “You never mentioned this before. How come you remember a piece of trivia like that, Ms. Wilbur?” He never used her first name. Not even when he’d been branch manager here, and her putative boss. She was older than his mother. She could never be other than Ms. Wilbur, or so Lindsey thought.

      It must have been the same way with Ms. Wilbur forty years before, in her dealings with Mr. Woodstreet. If she even knew his first name she wouldn’t use it in conversation.

      Ms. Wilbur said, “Mr. Woodstreet used to love to talk about Global National. You know the old saw about the biggest name goes with the smallest company, and vice versa? Galactic Colossal Enterprises operates out of a post office box, and F. Smith, Inc., has buildings in thirty countries and half a million employees?”

      She patted Mr. MacReedy gently on the knee. “Mr. СКАЧАТЬ