to the
sidewalk as a rather handsome leaded glass window that took up the
whole of a narrow second story. You couldn’t see in because the
drapes were drawn, and the first floor was cut off from view by a
high, well trimmed hedge. The entranceway consisted of a narrow
arch through the hedge that opened from an alley running off from
the main street. The alley was narrow enough that two pushcarts
wouldn’t have been able to pass one another. All in all, it looked
like the perfect house for someone who liked his privacy.
It was a quarter to three, and on a Monday
afternoon Hornbeck wouldn’t be anywhere except at work. There
wasn’t a soul around, not even on the playing field on the other
side of the road, so Guinness decided he would have himself a
look.
There was a second story door up a flight of
white stucco steps–it had a brass mail slot about a foot and a half
from the bottom and looked like the main entrance—and another
opening off a small back garden. That one was less visible from the
alley and looked as if it would spring with a hard look, so
Guinness settled on it.
In college there had been a rule that all
freshmen had to be in their dormitories before 2:00 A.M., when they
locked the doors. A lot of the time this conflicted with Guinness’s
work schedule, and try as he might he couldn’t persuade the head
resident to give him a key. Thus, as a matter of pure necessity, he
became something of an expert on the subject of window latches and
door locks. This one was a cinch; twenty seconds with a hairpin he
had had the foresight to bring along and he was inside the
storeroom of Hornbeck’s kitchen.
The kitchen itself was small and rather dark,
with wooden counter tops all the way round on three sides. It
didn’t give the impression of having been used much recently, and
Guinness passed through it quickly to the narrow stairwell that led
up to the second floor.
There was a small foyer behind the main
entrance, opening onto what must have been the living room in the
front and the dining room in the rear. He went into the living
room.
With the curtains drawn it was very gloomy,
and would have been gloomy even if they hadn’t been. The walls were
paneled in dark wood and the furniture was mahogany—late Victorian
in style, and covered with a dark blue material that looked like
velvet but probably wasn’t. The fireplace mantel and four or five
tiny tables scattered around the room were covered with porcelain
figurines, each about six inches tall and most of them dressed in
Eighteenth Century costume. It was a fussy, overcrowded room, the
kind in which you would expect to see seated an eighty year old
widow from Putney.
The bedroom was a little better; at least it
looked more lived in. The bed was unmade and narrow enough to give
the impression that Hornbeck didn’t entertain much.
In one of the bottom dresser drawers Guinness
found a .25 caliber automatic of Portuguese manufacture. The finish
on it was dull with age, but it was well oiled and clear of rust.
Guinness cleared the chamber so he could look down the barrel. It
was perfectly clean, a timely reminder that its owner was not the
grandmother his home might lead you to expect. Guinness wondered
how much of all that shit out in the front room was to Hornbeck’s
actual taste and how much was protective coloration.
There was a set of car keys in the right
table drawer, on a ring decorated with a Jaguar emblem. The house
didn’t have a garage, so Hornbeck’s car must be in a public parking
lot somewhere. That would figure. A Jaguar didn’t really go with
the Victorian bric a brac stands and the lace doilies and the
Dresden shepherdesses; those would be his working wheels. Guinness
looked at the alarm clock on the dresser. Three twenty-seven, time
to get the hell out before the lord and master decided it was time
to come home. He had been careful to wipe off everything he had
touched, so he was back out on Ellerslie Road within a minute and
sidewalk as a rather handsome leaded glass window that took up the
whole of a narrow second story. You couldn’t see in because the
drapes were drawn, and the first floor was cut off from view by a
high, well trimmed hedge. The entranceway consisted of a narrow
arch through the hedge that opened from an alley running off from
the main street. The alley was narrow enough that two pushcarts
wouldn’t have been able to pass one another. All in all, it looked
like the perfect house for someone who liked his privacy.
It was a quarter to three, and on a Monday
afternoon Hornbeck wouldn’t be anywhere except at work. There
wasn’t a soul around, not even on the playing field on the other
side of the road, so Guinness decided he would have himself a
look.
There was a second story door up a flight of
white stucco steps–it had a brass mail slot about a foot and a half
from the bottom and looked like the main entrance—and another
opening off a small back garden. That one was less visible from the
alley and looked as if it would spring with a hard look, so
Guinness settled on it.
In college there had been a rule that all
freshmen had to be in their dormitories before 2:00 A.M., when they
locked the doors. A lot of the time this conflicted with Guinness’s
work schedule, and try as he might he couldn’t persuade the head
resident to give him a key. Thus, as a matter of pure necessity, he
became something of an expert on the subject of window latches and
door locks. This one was a cinch; twenty seconds with a hairpin he
had had the foresight to bring along and he was inside the
storeroom of Hornbeck’s kitchen.
The kitchen itself was small and rather dark,
with wooden counter tops all the way round on three sides. It
didn’t give the impression of having been used much recently, and
Guinness passed through it quickly to the narrow stairwell that led
up to the second floor.
There was a small foyer behind the main
entrance, opening onto what must have been the living room in the
front and the dining room in the rear. He went into the living
room.
With the curtains drawn it was very gloomy,
and would have been gloomy even if they hadn’t been. The walls were
paneled in dark wood and the furniture was mahogany—late Victorian
in style, and covered with a dark blue material that looked like
velvet but probably wasn’t. The fireplace mantel and four or five
tiny tables scattered around the room were covered with porcelain
figurines, each about six inches tall and most of them dressed in
Eighteenth Century costume. It was a fussy, overcrowded room, the
kind in which you would expect to see seated an eighty year old
widow from Putney.
The bedroom was a little better; at least it
looked more lived in. The bed was unmade and narrow enough to give
the impression that Hornbeck didn’t entertain much.
In one of the bottom dresser drawers Guinness
found a .25 caliber automatic of Portuguese manufacture. The finish
on it was dull with age, but it was well oiled and clear of rust.
Guinness cleared the chamber so he could look down the barrel. It
was perfectly clean, a timely reminder that its owner was not the
grandmother his home might lead you to expect. Guinness wondered
how much of all that shit out in the front room was to Hornbeck’s
actual taste and how much was protective coloration.
There was a set of car keys in the right
table drawer, on a ring decorated with a Jaguar emblem. The house
didn’t have a garage, so Hornbeck’s car must be in a public parking
lot somewhere. That would figure. A Jaguar didn’t really go with
the Victorian bric a brac stands and the lace doilies and the
Dresden shepherdesses; those would be his working wheels. Guinness
looked at the alarm clock on the dresser. Three twenty-seven, time
to get the hell out before the lord and master decided it was time
to come home. He had been careful to wipe off everything he had
touched, so he was back out on Ellerslie Road within a minute and
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