Fritz Leiber Gondolier

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They were mine now. If they fitted me, I had a right to wear them. It was an unpleasant thought, but
there was no getting away from it.
The third drawer was filled with newspaper clippings, carefully arranged into separate piles and bundles.
I glanced at the top ones. They all seemed to be concerned with police cases, two of them fairly recent.
Here I figured, was a clue to what my uncle did after his retirement. He kept up an interest in his old job.
The bottom drawer contained a heterogeneous assortment of stuff. A pair of spectacles, a curiously
short, silver-headed cane, an empty briefcase, some green ribbon, a toy wooden horse that looked very
old (I wondered idly, if he had bought if for me when I was a baby and then forgotten to send it) and
other things.
Quickly I shoved in the drawer and walked away. This business wasn't as interesting as I'd expected. I
got a picture of things all right, but it made me think of death and feel shivery and lost. Here I was in the
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midst of a big city, and the only person I felt at all close to was three weeks buried. The personality of
the room was getting a tighter hold on me all the time.
Still, I figured I'd better finish the job, so I pulled out the shallow drawer under the table top. I found two
recent newspaper, a pair of scissors and a pencil, a small bundle of receipts in the landlord's laborious
hand, and a detective story from a lending library. Would they want me to pay the rental on it? I guess
they would not insist.
* * * *
That was all I could find. And, as I thought it over, it seemed very little. Didn't he use to get any letters?
The general neatness had led me to expect a couple of boxes of them, carefully tied in packets. And
weren't there any photographs or other mementoes? Or magazines or notebooks? Why, I hadn't even
come across that jumble of advertisements and folders and cards and other worthless stuff you find
somewhere in almost every home. It suddenly struck me that his last years must have been awfully
empty and barren, in spite of the clippings and the detective story.
There wasn't any knock, but the door opened and the landlord stepped inside, moving softly in big, loose
slippers. It startled me and made me a trifle angry a jumpy sort of anger.
I just wanted to tell you, he said, that we don't like to have any noise after eleven o'clock. Oh, and
your uncle used to cook at eight-thirty and five."
Okay. Okay, I said quickly and was about to add something sarcastic when a thought struck me.
Did my uncle keep a trunk or box in the basement, or anything like that? I asked. I was thinking of
letters, photographs.
He looked at me stupidly for a moment, then shook his head. No. Everything he had is right here, and
he indicated the room with a sideways movement of his big, thick-fingered hand.
Did he have many visitors? I asked. I thought the landlord hadn't heard this question but after a while
he came to and shook his head.
Thank you, I said, moving off. Well, good-night."
When I turned back he was still standing in the doorway, staring sleepily around the room. Again I
noticed how the whites of his eyes were discolored.
Say, he remarked. I see you've moved the furniture back the way your uncle had it."
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Yes, it was all up against the walls, and I pulled it out."
You put his picture back on the top of the cupboard."
That's where it used to be? I asked. He nodded, looked around again, yawned and turned to go.
Well he said, sleep well."
The last two words sounded unnatural as if dragged out with prodigious effort. He closed the door
noiselessly behind him. Immediately I had snatched the key from the table and was locking it. I wasn't
going to stand for him prying around without knocking, not if I could help it. Again loneliness closed in
on me.
So I had rearranged the furniture in the old pattern, and put the picture back in its proper place, had I?
The thought frightened me a little. Made me think I was getting too near the dead policeman and his
habits. I wished I didn't have to sleep in that ugly cast-iron bed. But where else could I go with my forty-
seven cents and my lack of gumption?
I realized suddenly, that I was being foolish. It was perfectly natural that I should feel a little uneasy.
Anyone would in such queer circumstances. But I mustn't let it get me down. I would have to live in this
room for some time. The thing to do was to get used to it. So I got out some of the newspaper clippings
that were in the dresser and began to go through them. They covered a period of twenty years or so. The
older ones were yellow and stiff, and cracked easily. They were mostly about murders. I kept turning
them over, looking at the headlines and here and there reading a little. After a while I found myself
plunged into accounts of a Phantom Slayer": who killed wantonly and for no apparent motive. His
crimes were similar to those with which the uncaught Jack the Ripper horrified London in 1888,
except that men and children, as well as women, were numbered among his victims. I vaguely
remembered hearing about two of the cases years ago there were seven or eight altogether. Now I read
the details. They were not conducive to pleasant thought. My uncle's name was mentioned among the
investigators in some of the earlier cases.
That was by far the biggest pile of clippings. All the piles were carefully arranged, but I couldn't find
any notes or comments, except a tiny scrap of paper with an address on it, 2318 Robey Street. It puzzled
me. Just that solitary address without any explanation. I planned to look it up some day.
* * * *
It was night outside now, and the upward slanting light from the street lamp made it easier to see the
dust on the window-pane. There weren't so many noises coming through the walls, just the low, sharp
drone of some radio voices. I could still hear the buzz of the defective neon sign, and another engine
puffing in the distant yards. To my relief, I found I was getting sleepy. As I undressed and hung my
clothes on the kitchen chair, I found myself wondering if my uncle had arranged his in the same way:
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