Something for the Sweeper | Page 2

so he breaks the windows."
"Well, maybe it's a good idea," said Jones. "Is he ever troubled with
pink elephants?"
"Yes, he is. He often sees them walking on the ceiling when he wakes
up in the morning."
"What does he do for them?"
"Oh, he always saves a half pint, and as soon as he drinks that they go
away."
"I should think they would," said Jones. "I'm still talking about
Hendrick Boone, by the way? Are you?"
"Yes. My husband."
"Oh," said Jones. "You're Mrs. Boone. Could I come in and sit down
and speak to you for a moment? I've got some news for you, and
besides my feet hurt."
"Oh, yes. Surely. Excuse me, please. I was a little flustered when you
said 'detective'--"
The hall was dark and small and narrow with a carpeted staircase
running up steeply just to the right of the front door. The wallpaper was
a stained brownish-black. There was a hole worn in the carpet at the
foot of the stairs.
"Right in here," Mrs. Boone said anxiously.
It was the parlor that stretched across the narrow front of the house.
The furniture was stiff and awkward, mellowed with age, and there was
a clumsy cut-glass chandelier that had been originally designed to burn
gas.
Jones sat down on a sofa that creaked mournfully under him and looked
down at his feet, wincing involuntarily.

"Now," said Mrs. Boone. She was sitting primly upright, looking very
small against the high carved back of the chair, with her hands folded
on her lap and smiling a little, timidly. "Now--you wished to speak to
me?"
Jones nodded, still thinking about his feet. "Yes. Your husband was
born in Awkright, Idaho, wasn't he?"
She nodded brightly. "Yes."
"Had one brother--by the name of Semus Boone?"
"Yes."
"Not any more," said Jones. "Semus Boone died a couple of months
ago."
"Oh," said Mrs. Boone. She was silent for a moment. "We hadn't seen
him for over twenty years. He didn't like Hendrick. He invited us to a
Christmas party, and Hendrick took a drop too much and broke the
plate glass window in Semus' living room. Semus was very angry."
"He must have gotten over it," said Jones. "He left your husband all his
money."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Boone. She smiled vaguely. "Was it enough to pay his
funeral expenses?"
Jones nodded. "Yes. And a little bit to spare. About a million and a
half."
Mrs. Boone's hands gripped tight. Her eyes glazed behind the thick
glasses, and her lips moved soundlessly. After a while she drew a deep
breath. "You're not--joking?"
"No," said Jones.
"You're--you're sure there's no mistake?"

"No," said Jones. "I don't make mistakes--not when there's a million
and a half in the pot. I've been hunting your husband for two months."
"A million and a half!" said Mrs. Boone dreamily.
"Yes," said Jones. "Your husband can't touch the principal, though. It's
in trust. That's where I come in. I'm an investigator for the Suburban
Mortgage and Trust Company. The company's the trustee--handles the
principal. Your husband gets the income--he and his heirs and assigns
and what not--for twenty years. Then the principal sum goes to certain
charities. The income amounts to over a thousand a week."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Boone. "Oh!" Her eyes began to gleam behind the
glasses, and she swallowed. "Sarah!" she called, and there was a
gasping catch in her voice. "Sarah! Sarah!"
There was the flip-flop of slippers in the hall, and a girl came and
stopped in the doorway. She had a wide red mouth and cigarette
drooping in the corner of it that slid a smooth blue stream of smoke up
past her cheek and the faded blondness of her hair. She was big and
heavy-boned, but had a lazy, cat-like gracefulness. Her eyes were a
deep-sea blue, set far apart. They were narrowed sullenly now, and she
looked Jones up and down.
"Well," she said. "And now what?"
She wore a blue kimono with the sleeves rolled back and was wiping
her hands on a towel. Her forearms were white and smoothly muscled.
There were birthmarks on both of them.
"Sarah," said Mrs. Boone. "This gentleman here just came to tell us that
your Uncle Semus died."
"Too bad," said Sarah. "What'd he do--bite himself on the tongue and
die of hydrophobia?"
"No," said Jones. "As a matter of fact he had a heart attack."

"Somebody must have cheated him out of a nickel," said Sarah. "That
would do it, all right."
"Don't speak ill of the dead," Mrs. Boone said in a gently reproving
voice. "He left your father a lot of money."
"How much?"
"The income from a million and a half," Jones told her.
Sarah's wide set eyes blinked once and then narrowed slowly.