The Ace of Spades Murder by Harry Stephen Keeler

Author:Harry Stephen Keeler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, detective, sleuth, murder, classic
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2017-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

“PAW” ELUM

Bill, turning from the wall-phone, found that the topknotted, skinny, calico-clad Mrs. Elum had vanished—rather, had become transformed miraculously into a most weird caricature of herself. For what was in sight now, and coming forward, was only a skinny little elderly bald-headed man of about her exact build, clad in home-sewn trousers and shirt made of calico almost identical with what she wore, and with a short, square-cut grey beard. He was bent completely over double, so that his torso stood practically at right angles to his legs. Plainly, arthritis. He was in the act of skating, rather than walking, by means of sliding a short stool ever ahead of him toward the doorway, under one arm a crudely lettered pasteboard sign reading:

FRESH CAT TODAY,

2 cents a pound

Clear to the door he skated with his stool-crutch, hung his sign by two evidently bent-pin hooks protruding from it on the screen-wire inside. This accomplished, he brought forth from a hip pocket a huge corncob pipe which proved to be lighted all the time, for when he took a deep satisfying whiff from it, it filled the whole place with an odour composed seemingly of burning rubber and alfalfa.

It was plain, from the cautious fearful glance he threw around toward the bead-hung rear quarters with his little blue eyes, why he took position here at the door, for the direction of the breeze through the place, such as there was, was such as to carry the foul fumes out the screen.

Bill cleared his throat.

“I beg your pardon, but I’m—”

“Know all ’bout it, sarcus-driver,” said the little old man, in a cackling voice almost like that of his wife. “Do all the phonin’ ye want—and settle up a’tter yo’re done. I’m Paw Elum. Maw tolt me ’bout you. She’s laid down now to take her aft’noon siesta.”

“Sies—hrmph—yes. Well, I’ll stick around here, Mr. Elum, a few minutes, if you don’t mind. Party I just called is going to—say, do you mind telling me—uh—ah—do you mind telling me—if people around here really eat cats?”

He felt a shiver in the pit of his stomach. “Do they eat—cat?” said the little old man, profoundly shocked. “W’y, shore they do. W’y wouldn’t they? The fat ’un whut goes ’ficially on sale now is the fattest an’ finest cat ever brung out’n th’ Valley. Young’un what toted it in on his shoulder was afear’d to fetch it to me ’caze I’d threatened to whop the billy-hell out’n him ef’n I ever cotched him in here ’gain, the—the little cracker-stealin’ varmint. So he t’uk it to Ced’ville Road, an’ sold it fer 5 cents. They brung it here, an’ sold it fer 10.”

“Are—are there cats—roaming in the Valley?” asked Bill.

“Wa-all,” said Paw thoughtfully, taking a good whiff on his rubbish kiln, “’pends on what you call roamin’. This ’un roamed too durned fur from Mud River, an’ got himself cotched ’way up in Cat’mount Creek.”

“Oh!” said Bill, relieved. For he liked cats. “A—a fish, eh?”

“Good Gordy,” said

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