My Clockwork Muse by D.R. Erickson Page B

quick, familiar step as if I had some
usual business on the second floor. I gave the man a disinterested
nod as we passed and continued on until I heard the door slam shut
below me. Then I turned and quickly retraced my steps. At the base
of the stairs, I entered the corridor that I knew from my previous
visit led to the basement door.
    A thrill passed through me. I was a writer, a
magazine editor and literary critic, not a cat-burglar. Even though
no one pursued me and I was doing nothing particularly wrong, the
idea of sneaking through the house where a heinous crime had been
committed filled me with a feeling of excitement. I had fooled the
man on the stairs into believing I was a tenant or a frequent
visitor. This little triumph made me feel oddly invulnerable and
had the effect of increasing my enthusiasm for the day's
enterprise. I now felt certain I could find some evidence in the
basement that would incriminate Fortunato's murderer. The more I
attempted to visualize the scene as I had witnessed it, the more I
became convinced that Gessler's men had probably destroyed more
evidence than they had uncovered, and that the key to solving the
mystery still lay untouched amid the ruins of their careless
investigation.
    In short, I found I rather enjoyed playing a
real-life Dupin.
    Still, however stealthy my movements and
clever my conduct, I could not summon the courage to place my hand
on the knob of the basement door. Reflecting my image back at me
with fish-eyed distortion, the very stillness of the object seemed
bloated with a promise of terror. As I drew back my fingers, I
consoled myself that it was not mere cowardice that stayed my hand,
but a sudden premonition. Perhaps not every clue was to be found
below. I decided to investigate upstairs first.
    The smell of cooking filled my nostrils and I
followed it past the basement door to a kitchen that opened at the
end of the corridor. A long cloth-covered table surrounded by many
well-worn chairs dominated the center of the room. On the stove, a
covered pot simmered quietly. It occurred to me that such a
well-used place in close proximity to the corridor through which
Fortunato and his killer would have had to pass might have harbored
witnesses, late-night diners or, more likely, a cook or other
staff. Out of curiosity—or perhaps hunger—I made my way to the pot
and, lifting the lid, had a look inside. Some kind of savory meat
stew stared back at me and my mouth began to water. I looked around
for a spoon, thinking to take a little taste (what would it hurt?),
when I was startled by the sound of a crashing dish behind me. In
my fright, I dropped the lid and it crashed with equal clangor back
onto the open mouth of the pot. I turned and saw a fat woman
staring at me wide-eyed in terror. In her hands she held a stack of
clattering dishes. Another lay in broken shards around her
feet.
    "Oh, pardon me, madam! I did not intend to
frighten you." I rushed to her, meaning to take the stack from her
hands, but she recoiled out of my reach until her back was pressed
tightly to the wall. Her fear puzzled me. It was more than shock at
finding a strange man tasting her stew. She was afraid of me . I stopped and began picking up the pieces of the
shattered plate. "I have just arrived on ... police business," I
told her, instantly warming to the lie, "and was attracted by the
scent—"
    "Oh, you're with the police!" she cried and
her whole body sagged with relief. "Oh, my heavens! For a moment, I
thought you were—" She set her plates down on the table, and,
breathing hard, began fanning her face. I saw that sweat dripped
down her jowls. Once her breathing had returned to normal, she
looked up with a stern expression. "But, look here! I have already
told the police everything I know. Is it police business now to
browbeat honest people who have done nothing wrong?"
    "I have no intention of browbeating anyone,
madam." I saw an opportunity here, and I decided to pursue it to my
full