Requiem THEY STOOD ABOUT IN one of the dusty, deserted rooms—an old-fashioned parlor, with the battered remains of a Victorian fireplace mutely proclaiming its fall upon evil days—and talked quietly. Fiorelli was beside himself with impotent rage. His dark beefy face was the color of slate; he kicked a charred piece of wood across the room. Velie looked glummer than usual. The Inspector took the unsuccessful termination of the raid more philosophically. He inhaled snuff and sent one of the detectives in search of a caretaker, or superintendent, if there was one to be found in the neighborhood. Ellery said nothing. The detective returned shortly with a strapping, livid Negro. “Do you take care of this house?” asked the Inspector brusquely of the Negro. The Negro removed his rusty derby and shuffled his feet. “I expect so, sir.” “What are you—janitor, superintendent?” “Kind of. I take care of a whole pack of houses on this block. Rent them for the owners when a tenant comes along.”
