The Ruby Redfort Collection: 4-6: Feed the Fear; Pick Your Poison; Blink and You Die. Lauren Child
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occupied by books, notebooks and paper-stacks – the furniture was more of a filing system than somewhere to sit.
There were a few papers strewn across the floor under the desk, but as Blacker suggested, perhaps the wind had caught these when the thief wrenched open the window. Apart from that it was all very orderly. It wasn’t at all obvious what had been removed from the apartment but it was safe to say something had been, for there on the desk was a little white calling card.
‘Bingo,’ said Blacker.
‘Only thing is,’ said Ruby scanning the desk, ‘what’s missing?’
They both looked at the desk. On it was a spider plant, a cactus, a pen pot, a stapler, a hole punch, a reel of sticky-tape in a tape dispenser, five paperweights on top of five different piles of papers, some envelopes, some cheques, some A4 typewritten sheets. There was a tin of lip balm, an eraser, a glasses case and a sheet of stamps.
‘A telephone?’ suggested Blacker.
‘Seems unlikely a thief would steal the telephone,’ said Ruby.
‘Seems unlikely a thief would steal a not so valuable book,’ said Blacker.
‘True, but still, a telephone?’ said Ruby.
‘I agree, unlikely,’ said Blacker. He pressed the transmitter button on his watch, no answer, so he tried again and this time the call connected and he spoke into the tiny speaker. ‘Hi Buzz, I am trying to locate Froghorn – could you get him on the line? I appreciate it.’ A pause. ‘Froghorn, could we ask the neighbour about the phone, I mean just to be sure, did he have one and if so where?’
They waited. After a few minutes they got their answer.
‘Mr Norgaard’s neighbour said Norgaard never had a phone on the desk,’ Blacker relayed, ‘because he didn’t want to be disturbed when he was writing.’
‘What does he write?’ asked Ruby.
‘He’s a scriptwriter,’ said Blacker.
‘No, I meant what does he write? TV? Film – anything I woulda heard of?’
‘Nothing I have ever heard of,’ said Blacker. ‘I’m not sure how successful he is, maybe not as successful as his father.’
‘His father is a scriptwriter?’
‘Was,’ said Blacker. ‘He wrote the screenplay for The Storm Snatcher and The Silent Scream.’
‘Two of Mrs Digby’s favourites,’ said Ruby, impressed. She looked again at the desk. ‘And the paperweights?’ she said. ‘What a lot of paperweights Mr Norgaard does have.’
It was the papers under the desk that made her think of it. Everything about Norgaard’s room was ordered, cluttered with scripts and papers, but all in order, except for the sheets under the desk – just why were they there?
‘What did the detectives say about the window?’ asked Ruby.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just. . . did they say anything about it?’
‘Well, that’s an interesting thing. . .’ said Blacker. ‘They said that the intruder would have had no problem opening it because it was used regularly, slid up and down with no trouble at all. Unlike our friend Mr Baradi, it seems this guy liked fresh air, never had air-con installed.’
‘Which would explain why he used paperweights, not just decorative things but actually there to stop paper blowing around.’
‘That would be logical,’ agreed Blacker.
‘So. . . the papers under the desk don’t make sense – they don’t fit with the way Norgaard does things,’ Ruby said. ‘Look at the piles.’ Blacker looked. Every pile of papers was secured by a paperweight.
Blacker smiled. ‘You think one of his paperweights is missing.’
‘I do,’ said Ruby, ‘but which one?’
‘No way to know,’ said Blacker, ‘not without talking to Norgaard and who knows when he’s going to resurface?’
‘Yeah,’ said Ruby, ‘it’s too bad.’ She took her Polaroid camera from her backpack and started snapping pictures of the desk.
‘You know the TCPD will pass on a complete set of photographs, they took about a zillion of the apartment,’ said Blacker.
‘I know,’ said Ruby. ‘But I’m only really interested in the desk and this way I can look and look until I see the answer; it’s probably staring me in the face.’
She was right about this in a sense, but she was missing the big picture and without it she was never going to see what she needed to see. . .
‘So I see from reading
my morning paper that
you went shopping
again. . .’
‘. . . a nice high-rise on Avenue Walk.’
‘So?’
‘No one saw you.’
‘People only see what they expect to see.’
‘People only see what they are able to see; you’re cheating.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘Don’t mess with me Birdboy – we both know you’ve got it and I’m coming after you.’
‘You’re trying to scare me?’
‘No, I’m warning you. I would hope that you were scared already. I am the living dead after all.’
‘I don’t scare, I have nothing to lose.’
‘How about your life?’
‘I lost that a long time ago.’
IT WAS EARLY MORNING AND MRS DIGBY WAS READING ALL ABOUT IT. She had a cup of strong tea and a currant bun (in proper English style) and her copy of the Twinford Lark.
Ruby had woken very early, perhaps due to the strange hours she was working and as a consequence her altered sleep rhythms. She woke hungry and wandered into the kitchen looking for food.
‘Howdy Mrs Digby.’
‘Knock me down with a feather child, what are you doing walking at this hour?’
‘Beats me,’ said Ruby. ‘So what’s the story Mrs Digby?’
‘Another robbery,’ said the housekeeper, ‘this time on the thirty-seventh floor of the Warrington Apartments on Avenue Walk.’
‘Really? The same guy they think?’
‘Looks that way,’ said Mrs Digby, slurping on her tea. ‘Came in the window, left by the door.’
‘What did he steal?’ Ruby was wondering why Blacker hadn’t contacted her about this; it had to be connected.
‘Never mind what he took, those folks are lucky to be alive; could be dead in their beds.’
‘That’s not his M.O.,’ said Ruby, ‘he’s not a murderer.’
‘Not