The Mystery of the Invisible Dog - M. V. Carey [10]
in the hospital?”
“Now, don’t you worry about that, Mrs.
O’Reilly,” said the priest. “Why don’t you go
and … and make yourself a nice cup of tea?”
He got into the back of the ambulance. The
doors closed and the vehicle started away
from the kerb.
“Cup of tea!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Reilly. “A nice cup of tea, he says! What ails the man? Earl with a hole knocked in his head, murdered perhaps by that wandering spirit, and he talks of cups of tea!”
She brushed past Prentice and the Three Investigators and went muttering towards the parish house.
“Murdered by a wandering spirit?” said Bob.
“She likes to think there’s a ghost in the neighbourhood,” said Fenton Prentice. “She claims she’s seen one — the ghost of the former pastor. He’s been dead for three years.
She claims he appears in the church and on the street.”
The boys and Mr. Prentice walked on toward Wilshire Boulevard.
“Ah, Mr. Prentice, do you suppose that this wandering spirit could be the same shadow that you see in your apartment?” asked Bob.
“Certainly not!” answered Mr. Prentice. “I would recognize the ghost of the old pastor — if there is such a thing. So far, only Mrs. O’Reilly has seen him. She insists that he walks about the church at night carrying a candle. Why he would be compelled to do that, I cannot imagine. He was a pleasant old man. I used to play chess with him. He wasn’t given to night-walking. In fact, he was usually in bed by ten.”
Mr. Prentice and the boys turned the corner on to Wilshire Boulevard and walked a few blocks to a private club. Inside, brass doorknobs gleamed with the lustre of years of care, the tablecloths were starched, and the carnation in the vase on the centre of their table was unmistakably real. It was late for breakfast and early for lunch. Except for a waiter who hovered near the door to the kitchen, they had the dining room to themselves.
“Mr. Prentice,” said Jupiter when they had been served, “your apartment building is rather large, but I haven’t seen many people there. There is Mrs. Bortz …”
Mr. Prentice made an unpleasant face.
“Mrs. Bortz,” repeated Jupiter. “Also Sonny Elmquist. He seems to be home at odd hours.”
“He works from midnight to morning at the market on Vermont,” said Prentice.
“Strange young person. There’s something pathetic about a grown man who is called Sonny. I understand that his real name is Cedric. He has the smallest apartment in the building. I don’t suppose he makes much money. There is also a young woman named Chalmers — Gwen Chalmers — who has the apartment next to Elmquist’s. You haven’t met her. She works as a buyer for a department store downtown. Mr. Murphy is a stockbroker.”
“He’s the man who came up the steps last night after the police left,” said Bob.
“Yes. He has the corner apartment at the back of the building. You may see him later today. He goes into his office very early, because the stock market opens early in New York and we’re three hours behind the East Coast. He could be at home any time after noon. His nephew Harley Johnson, a college student, is with him at the moment. I understand Murphy is Harley’s guardian. Then there’s Alex Hassell, the cat man.”
“Cat man?” echoed Pete.
Fenton Prentice smiled. “I tend to think of him that way. You see, he feeds cats.
Every evening at five all the stray cats in the neighbourhood gather at his door and he feeds them. He also keeps a pet Siamese in his apartment.”
“What does he do when he’s not feeding cats?” asked Pete.
“Mr. Hassell has no job,” said Prentice. “He has private means, so he comes and goes as he pleases. I believe he walks through the city looking for stray cats to feed. If they’re sick or injured, he takes them to a vet.”
“Who else lives in your building?” asked Jupiter.
“A number of unremarkable people. There are twenty units in all. Most of the tenants are single people and most of them work. Also, most of them are away for the holidays, visiting friends or relatives. At the moment, only six of us are in residence. Seven, if you count Mr. Murphy’s nephew, Harley.