lock for a few more seconds. Just as he stepped forward to offer help, he heard the lock turn and saw the door pop open. Klingman slowly stepped back from the open door to allow John access.
The open door revealed an immaculate apartment. Whitewashed woodwork edged butter cream walls. A glass-topped coffee table sat before a brown leather sofa that looked as if it belonged in the Reform Club of jolly old Pall Mall, waiting for Phineas Fogg to rest his keester upon it and declare that he could make it around the world in eighty days. A red oriental rug concealed the tattered living room carpet. The fresh scent of cinnamon billowed outward and extinguished the scent of spoiled dairy that permeated the halls. The room was nicer than anything John had ever called his own.
“It’s a shame,” Klingman wheezed. “He was a very good man. I wish that all the other tenants kept their apartment as well and paid their rent so reliably.” He looked in at the living room, and said, “I will miss young Ted.”
John stepped into the living room. To the right, two doors flanked Hallman’s computer desk. They opened into the bedroom and kitchen.
Bookcases covered the wall to the left. Stuffed onto their shelves were classics of literature and contemporary literary works. In the classic genre, John saw The Canterbury Tales , Crime and Punishment , Heart of Darkness , The Inferno , and Paradise Lost . On the contemporary side, he saw Atlas Shrugged , The Name of the Rose , and Tropic of Capricorn . Other books also covered a spectrum of works outside the contemporary and classic titans. Hallman had arranged all the books alphabetically by title.
In the last column of shelves, John found research textbooks and compilations of folk tales. This set of books was set apart from all of the others by its own organizational structure. They seemed to be grouped first by topic, then alphabetically by author.
The worth of the books astounded John. He considered the possibility that the massive private collection was an egghead’s stand-in for safari trophies; the menagerie let a visitor know what works Hallman had conquered.
“Did Mr. Hallman say anything to you in the past few days?” John asked Klingman.
“No, nothing.”
“Did he have any friends in the building?”
“No, Mr. Hallman wasn’t here much. When I saw him in the hall, I always saw him treat everyone nicely, though you could tell that he really had nothing in common with anyone here.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Klingman. You have been most helpful. If you would excuse us, we are going to need to seal this apartment off as part of an investigation.”
“Oh, OK.” The old man nodded, then turned slowly and shuffled off without a glance back.
John thought back to Dunglison’s letter; he said Hallman would arrange for someone to find his information. Based on the interaction Klingman described, it seemed Hallman was lacking someone with which to plant clues, as Dunglison did with Brinker. If Hallman left something here, no one was going to point it out.
Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves, John turned to Alvarez, and said, “I’m looking for something—a pack of papers. They were supposedly hidden here somewhere.”
“Here?”
“Yes,” John said, realizing that Dunglison never specified that the papers would be here. He thought it best to keep Alvarez thinking that a search had some purpose. “Look around. Try not to disturb anything, but let’s see if we can find them.”
Alvarez tilted his head and shrugged. “OK, I’ll take the kitchen.”
John made his way to the bedroom and scanned the room to make sure nothing would literally, or figuratively, leap out at him. A book sat open on the nightstand. On the mattress of the canopy bed was a rich and intricately woven coverlet. The top drawer of the dresser was open, exposing a pile of socks and stack of boxer-briefs. In the three lower drawers, John found a large number of polo shirts, khakis, and sweaters.
The open door revealed an immaculate apartment. Whitewashed woodwork edged butter cream walls. A glass-topped coffee table sat before a brown leather sofa that looked as if it belonged in the Reform Club of jolly old Pall Mall, waiting for Phineas Fogg to rest his keester upon it and declare that he could make it around the world in eighty days. A red oriental rug concealed the tattered living room carpet. The fresh scent of cinnamon billowed outward and extinguished the scent of spoiled dairy that permeated the halls. The room was nicer than anything John had ever called his own.
“It’s a shame,” Klingman wheezed. “He was a very good man. I wish that all the other tenants kept their apartment as well and paid their rent so reliably.” He looked in at the living room, and said, “I will miss young Ted.”
John stepped into the living room. To the right, two doors flanked Hallman’s computer desk. They opened into the bedroom and kitchen.
Bookcases covered the wall to the left. Stuffed onto their shelves were classics of literature and contemporary literary works. In the classic genre, John saw The Canterbury Tales , Crime and Punishment , Heart of Darkness , The Inferno , and Paradise Lost . On the contemporary side, he saw Atlas Shrugged , The Name of the Rose , and Tropic of Capricorn . Other books also covered a spectrum of works outside the contemporary and classic titans. Hallman had arranged all the books alphabetically by title.
In the last column of shelves, John found research textbooks and compilations of folk tales. This set of books was set apart from all of the others by its own organizational structure. They seemed to be grouped first by topic, then alphabetically by author.
The worth of the books astounded John. He considered the possibility that the massive private collection was an egghead’s stand-in for safari trophies; the menagerie let a visitor know what works Hallman had conquered.
“Did Mr. Hallman say anything to you in the past few days?” John asked Klingman.
“No, nothing.”
“Did he have any friends in the building?”
“No, Mr. Hallman wasn’t here much. When I saw him in the hall, I always saw him treat everyone nicely, though you could tell that he really had nothing in common with anyone here.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Klingman. You have been most helpful. If you would excuse us, we are going to need to seal this apartment off as part of an investigation.”
“Oh, OK.” The old man nodded, then turned slowly and shuffled off without a glance back.
John thought back to Dunglison’s letter; he said Hallman would arrange for someone to find his information. Based on the interaction Klingman described, it seemed Hallman was lacking someone with which to plant clues, as Dunglison did with Brinker. If Hallman left something here, no one was going to point it out.
Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves, John turned to Alvarez, and said, “I’m looking for something—a pack of papers. They were supposedly hidden here somewhere.”
“Here?”
“Yes,” John said, realizing that Dunglison never specified that the papers would be here. He thought it best to keep Alvarez thinking that a search had some purpose. “Look around. Try not to disturb anything, but let’s see if we can find them.”
Alvarez tilted his head and shrugged. “OK, I’ll take the kitchen.”
John made his way to the bedroom and scanned the room to make sure nothing would literally, or figuratively, leap out at him. A book sat open on the nightstand. On the mattress of the canopy bed was a rich and intricately woven coverlet. The top drawer of the dresser was open, exposing a pile of socks and stack of boxer-briefs. In the three lower drawers, John found a large number of polo shirts, khakis, and sweaters.
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