The Vaults - By Toby Ball Page 0,29
mean by “nostalgia week”? Poole waited as the woman’s footsteps progressed around the apartment, then she reappeared at the window. She had a key in her hand that she dropped straight down toward him. He pulled his hat off and caught the key with it.
Her apartment door was open, so he walked in, his hat in his hand. The kitchen reeked of mold and spoiled food. Thankfully, the light was dim and Poole held his breath until he was in a corridor that was merely stale with must. He heard labored breathing coming from the room ahead of him. Only at the threshold of the room did he get a full look at her, this enormous woman wearing a tent of a flowered housedress, her swollen, pale ankles visible below the hemline.
“Come on in, let’s have a look at you,” the woman said from her chair. The room stank of years of her. Sweat, smoke, urine, spoiled food, and he did not want to think what else. Poole stepped into the room now and looked around. The walls were lined with shelves jammed with books. “Well, well, well. Another visitor. Polly’s lucky week, this one.”
“Someone else has been here?”
“Why don’t you introduce yourself first, fella? Come and sit down.” She motioned to an upholstered chair. Poole sat down in it without enthusiasm.
“My name’s Poole.”
“Hmmm. Poole. You got a first name Poole?” When she spoke, her neck did a funny quivering thing, and Poole found he could not pull his eyes away.
“Ethan. Ethan Poole.”
“Mine’s Polly. Pleased to make your acquaintance. So tell me, what brings you to my abode today, Mr. Ethan Poole?”
“Like I said, I’m trying to find a person by the name of Casper Prosnicki. I understand that he used to live in one of the flats here.”
“Used to’s right. Left about seven years back. Same as DeGraffenreid, come to think of it. Right about the same time.”
Poole shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under her steady, intense stare. “Who’s DeGraffenreid?”
“Another former tenant. Gink came by the other day asking about him. Reif DeGraffenreid and the Prosnickis—at least Casper and his mom. Oh, Lord, what was her name?” She squinted her pig eyes in concentration, as if determined to snatch the name from memory.
“Lena.”
“That’s right,” she said, sounding both pleased and surprised. “Lena. But I guess you would know that; she must’ve hired you. Must be terrible not knowing where your kid is. I can’t fathom.”
“She was very upset. Very upset. But, Polly, why was this person, you know, this gink, why was he looking for what’s his name . . .”
“DeGraffenreid.”
“Yes. Why was this person looking for DeGraffenreid?”
“Didn’t say. He had two pictures, though. Wasn’t sure which one was Mr. DeGraffenreid. So I told him.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Of course, I do, dear. I don’t get visitors here every day, you know.”
She was making him work for it. “What was his name, Polly?”
“Arthur Puskis. Funny little gink. Looked like he had just crawled out from the grave. Nervous, too, but official. He might have even been police. He just might have.”
The name Puskis meant nothing to Poole. He got up from his chair and walked to the bookshelves to Polly’s right. She had a lot of books, and scanning the titles, he was surprised to find that a number of them were in foreign languages. He recognized German, Spanish, and Russian. Other titles were in languages he could not identify. Italian maybe, and Portuguese. Several tomes were in Latin. The colors of the book jackets were muted by a layer of dust. He found a section of books with English titles. The Bible. The Torah. The Bhagavad Gita. The Koran. Translations of Cervantes, Dumas, de Sade.
Polly was watching him. “Are you a spiritual man, Mr. Poole?”
He was absently tracing a line through the dust on one of the shelves with his finger. “Not particularly, I guess.”
She made a noise that seemed some kind of judgment.
“Do you have any idea where I might find Casper Prosnicki?”
“I would say with his mother, but, then, I doubt you would have come to me if she had him.”
“What did the Prosnickis do?”
“For a living?”
Poole nodded. The dust and the heat and the smell of the place were starting to give him a headache.
“What does anyone do for a living down in the Hollows, Mr. Poole? They did what they needed to do. He was a butcher.” She said it as if it were of but marginal relevance to the question.
“But I take it