the bedroom. It had two beds. I planned to sleep in the other room on the couch, away from his threats of twisting, snorting, snoring, turning, and insomnia.
We cleaned up and went out again in search of a cab, which we got, in spite of the rain now coming down heavily with distant crashes of thunder.
When we got to the six-flat apartment building, Fields paid the cabby and we got out. There was a sign on the building, saying: Furnished Apartments for Rent. The rain continued as we ran into the lobby.
Fields was decidedly pale. “This place was here when I was a boy,” he said. “Passed it frequently. Stole coal from the shuttle that dropped it in back.”
On the wall, next to the bells, I found a neatly printed card that read: Carol Monahan, Proprietor.
All the cards were in the same neat hand, including that of Lester O. Hipnoodle, Apartment 3.
I rang Carol Monahan’s bell and we waited, but not long. The inner door opened and a woman in her fifties, in a bright-yellow dress, looked at us with an expectant smile. Her hair was dyed black and her teeth too good to be real.
“Mrs. Monahan?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, still beaming as she looked at Fields and added, “I know you.”
“I will make full restitution in cash for the coal,” he said.
Mrs. Monahan looked reasonably puzzled.
“A joke,” I said.
Mrs. Monahan nodded, and I told her that Detective Gus Belcher had sent us and that we’d like to see Mr. Hipnoodle’s room.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “We’re here from Los Angeles. We have reason to believe that Mr. Hipnoodle plans to steal a great deal of money from my client.”
She nodded in understanding.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes still on Fields as she stepped back to let us enter.
“What do you know about Hipnoodle?” I asked as we went up a short flight of dark stairs made even darker by the rain-black sky outside.
“Tall, thin, about forty, good teeth, pimple on his cheek, right here.” She paused and pointed to her cheek.
“Tall?”
“At least six feet,” she said. “Probably more. Talked kind of refined, but it sounded a little phony. Don’t know why.”
“Hair?”
“Dark, short. Don’t remember the color of his eyes. The other detective asked me all this,” she said, stopping in front of a door on the first landing. There was a white number three painted in the center of the door. She opened it with a key from a chain she pulled from the pocket of her yellow dress.
“I’ve got breakfast on the stove,” she said. “I’m going back down. Lock the door when you leave.”
And she was gone. I closed the door and Fields let out a sigh of relief. “Thought I was a goner,” he said.
“She was a baby or not even born yet when you took the coal,” I said, looking around the living room we were standing in. “And even if she wasn’t and she recognized you, though I doubt if you look anything like you did when you were a kid, you could give her a couple of dollars. No one’s going to arrest W. C. Fields for stealing some coal when he was a kid.”
“I can see,” said Fields, “that you have never been in Philadelphia.”
“Let’s look around,” I said.
Fields moved toward the bedroom. I stayed in the living room.
The furniture was old and dark but looked sturdy enough and reasonably clean. A sofa, an armchair. A table with a radio. A telephone. The reproductions of paintings on the wall were definitely of the same vintage as the furniture. Meant to brighten the place, the landscapes and still lifes looked faded and weary. There was one window in the living room, behind the sofa. It faced a brick wall about six feet away.
I began to search, not knowing what for. I heard Fields rumbling in the bedroom. After five minutes of looking behind pictures, under the once-orange faded rug on the wooden floor, under the cushions of the sofa and couch—which netted me forty-eight cents, a button, and half a pencil—I picked up the phone
We cleaned up and went out again in search of a cab, which we got, in spite of the rain now coming down heavily with distant crashes of thunder.
When we got to the six-flat apartment building, Fields paid the cabby and we got out. There was a sign on the building, saying: Furnished Apartments for Rent. The rain continued as we ran into the lobby.
Fields was decidedly pale. “This place was here when I was a boy,” he said. “Passed it frequently. Stole coal from the shuttle that dropped it in back.”
On the wall, next to the bells, I found a neatly printed card that read: Carol Monahan, Proprietor.
All the cards were in the same neat hand, including that of Lester O. Hipnoodle, Apartment 3.
I rang Carol Monahan’s bell and we waited, but not long. The inner door opened and a woman in her fifties, in a bright-yellow dress, looked at us with an expectant smile. Her hair was dyed black and her teeth too good to be real.
“Mrs. Monahan?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, still beaming as she looked at Fields and added, “I know you.”
“I will make full restitution in cash for the coal,” he said.
Mrs. Monahan looked reasonably puzzled.
“A joke,” I said.
Mrs. Monahan nodded, and I told her that Detective Gus Belcher had sent us and that we’d like to see Mr. Hipnoodle’s room.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “We’re here from Los Angeles. We have reason to believe that Mr. Hipnoodle plans to steal a great deal of money from my client.”
She nodded in understanding.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes still on Fields as she stepped back to let us enter.
“What do you know about Hipnoodle?” I asked as we went up a short flight of dark stairs made even darker by the rain-black sky outside.
“Tall, thin, about forty, good teeth, pimple on his cheek, right here.” She paused and pointed to her cheek.
“Tall?”
“At least six feet,” she said. “Probably more. Talked kind of refined, but it sounded a little phony. Don’t know why.”
“Hair?”
“Dark, short. Don’t remember the color of his eyes. The other detective asked me all this,” she said, stopping in front of a door on the first landing. There was a white number three painted in the center of the door. She opened it with a key from a chain she pulled from the pocket of her yellow dress.
“I’ve got breakfast on the stove,” she said. “I’m going back down. Lock the door when you leave.”
And she was gone. I closed the door and Fields let out a sigh of relief. “Thought I was a goner,” he said.
“She was a baby or not even born yet when you took the coal,” I said, looking around the living room we were standing in. “And even if she wasn’t and she recognized you, though I doubt if you look anything like you did when you were a kid, you could give her a couple of dollars. No one’s going to arrest W. C. Fields for stealing some coal when he was a kid.”
“I can see,” said Fields, “that you have never been in Philadelphia.”
“Let’s look around,” I said.
Fields moved toward the bedroom. I stayed in the living room.
The furniture was old and dark but looked sturdy enough and reasonably clean. A sofa, an armchair. A table with a radio. A telephone. The reproductions of paintings on the wall were definitely of the same vintage as the furniture. Meant to brighten the place, the landscapes and still lifes looked faded and weary. There was one window in the living room, behind the sofa. It faced a brick wall about six feet away.
I began to search, not knowing what for. I heard Fields rumbling in the bedroom. After five minutes of looking behind pictures, under the once-orange faded rug on the wooden floor, under the cushions of the sofa and couch—which netted me forty-eight cents, a button, and half a pencil—I picked up the phone
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