'Salem's Lot(39)

10

Parkins paused a moment to look in the show window of the new shop before knocking on the door. When the place had been the Village Washtub, a body could look in here and see nothing but a lot of fat women in rollers adding bleach or getting change out of the machine on the wall, most of them chewing gum like cows with mouthfuls of mulch. But an interior decorator's truck from Portland had been here yesterday afternoon and most of today, and the place looked considerably different.

A platform had been shoved up behind the window, and it was covered with a swatch of deep nubby carpet, light green in color. Two spotlights had been installed up out of sight, and they cast soft, highlighting glows on the three objects that bad been arranged in the window: a clock, a spinning wheel, and an old-fashioned cherrywood cabinet. There was a small easel in front of each piece, and a discreet price tag on each easel, and my God, would anybody in their right mind actually pay $600 for a spinning wheel when they could go down to the Value House and get a Singer for $48.95?

Sighing, Parkins went to the door and knocked.

It was opened only a second later, almost as if the new fella had been lurking behind it, waiting for him to come to the door.

'Inspector!' Straker said with a narrow smile. 'How good of you to drop by!'

'Plain old constable, I guess,' Parkins said. He lit a Pall Mall and strolled in, 'Parkins Gillespie. Pleased to meet you.' He stuck out his hand. It was gripped, squeezed gently by a hand that felt enormously strong and very dry, and then dropped.

'Richard Throckett Straker,' the bald man said.

'I figured you was,' Parkins said, looking around. The entire shop had been carpeted and was in the process of being painted. The smell of fresh paint was a good one, but there seemed to be another smell underneath it, an unpleasant one. Parkins could not place it; he turned his attention back to Straker.

'What can I do for you on this so-fine day?' Straker asked.

Parkins turned his mild gaze out the window, where the rain continued to pour down.

'Oh, nothing at all, I guess. I just came by to say how-do. More or less welcome you to the town an' wish you good luck, I guess.'

'How thoughtful. Would you care for a coffee? Some sherry? I have both out back.'

'No thanks, I can't stop. Mr Barlow around?'

'Mr Barlow is in New York, on a buying trip. I don't expect him back until at least the tenth of October.'

'You'll be openin' without him, then,' Parkins said, thinking that if the prices he had seen in the window were any indication, Straker wouldn't exactly be swamped with customers. 'What's Mr Barlow's first name, by the way?'

Straker's smile reappeared, razor-thin. 'Are you asking in your official capacity, ah . . . Constable?'

'Nope. Just curious.'

'My partner's full name is Kurt Barlow,' Straker said. 'We have worked together in both London and Hamburg. This' - he swept his arm around him - 'this is our retire?ment. Modest. Yet tasteful. We expect to make no more than a living. Yet we both love old things, fine things, and we hope to make a reputation in the area . . . perhaps even throughout your so-beautiful New England region. Do you think that would be possible, Constable Gillespie?'

'Anything's possible, I guess,' Parkins said, looking around for an ash tray. He saw none, and tapped his cigarette ash into his coat pocket. 'Anyway, I hope you'll have the best of luck, and tell Mr Barlow when you see him that I'm gonna try and get around.'

'I'l I do so,' Straker said. 'He enjoys company.

'That's fine,' Gillespie said. He went to the door, paused, looked back. Straker was looking at him intently. 'By the way, how do you like that old house?'

'It needs a great deal of work,' Straker said. 'But we have time.'

'I guess you do,' Parkins agreed. 'Don't suppose you seen any yow'uns up around there.'

Straker's brow creased. 'Yowwens?'

'Kids,' Parkins explained patiently. 'You know how they sometimes like to devil new folks. Throw rocks or ring the bell an' run away . . . that sort of thing.'

'No,' Straker said. 'No children.'

'We seem to kind have misplaced one.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes,' Parkins said judiciously, 'yes, it is. The thinkin' now is that we may not find him. Not alive.'

'What a shame,' Straker said distantly.

'It is, kinda. If you should see anything . . . '

'I would of course report it to your office, posthaste.' He smiled his chilly smile again.

'That's good,' Parkins said. He opened the door and looked resignedly out at the pouring rain. 'You tell Mr Barlow that I'm lookin' forward.'

'I certainly will, Constable Gillespie. Ciao.'

Parkins looked back, startled. 'Chow?'

Straker's smile widened. 'Good-by, Constable Gillespie. That is the familiar Italian expression for good-by.'

'Oh? Well, you learn somethin' new every day, don't you? 'By.' He stepped out into the rain and closed the door behind him. 'Not familiar to me, it ain't.' His cigarette was soaked. He threw it away.

Inside, Straker watched him up the street through the show window. He was no longer smiling.

11