Something for the Sweeper

Something for the Sweeper
by Norbert Davis

Jones limped slowly along, his rubbers making an irregular
squeak-squish sound on the wet cement of the sidewalk. He was not a
large man and, walking as he was now, humped forward in an
unconscious effort to favor his feet, he looked small and insignificant.
He wore an old trench-coat with grease stains running jaggedly down
the front. The sun was bright on the slick-black wetness of the asphalt
paving, and he had his hat-brim pulled low over his tired eyes.
The houses on this street were gaunt, ugly and brown, and as alike as
the teeth in a saw. They all had a wide flight of worn stairs leading up
to the front door with another flight beside it leading down into the
basement. They had all been built by one man, those houses, and he
evidently was a person who believed in getting a good, plain plan and
then sticking to it.
Jones was watching house numbers out of the corners of his eyes. He
was coming pretty close now, and he began to walk even slower. His
mouth twisted up at one side every time he came down on his right
foot.
Ahead of him he could see a man's head and shoulders. The man was
halfway down one of the basement flights of stairs. His head and
shoulders moved back and forth in a sort of a jigging rhythm.
Approaching, Jones saw that he was sweeping up the stairs of the
basement. He swept in careful, calculating little dabs, as precisely as if
he were painting a picture with his broom.
"Hi," said Jones, stopping and standing on his left foot.
The man made another dab with his broom, inspected the result, and

then looked up at Jones. He was an old man, small and shrunken and
wiry, with white, smooth hair that was combed straight back from his
softly plastic face. He nodded silently at Jones, solemn and wordless.
"Hendrick Boone live here?" Jones asked.
The old man sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Who?"
"Hendrick Boone."
The old man considered for a moment. "Live where?"
"Here," said Jones.
"Yes," said the old man.
Jones stared at him sourly. "Thanks a lot," he said at last.
"Oh, that's all right," the old man said, and smiled.
Jones went up the stairs, grunting painfully, and, when he got to the top,
leaned over and pinched the toe of his right rubber and muttered to
himself under his breath. He straightened up and looked at the closed
double doors ahead of him. There was a narrow frosted-glass panel in
each one, and the pair of stiff-legged storks, with toothpick beaks
depicted on them, leered disdainfully at him with opposite eyes. Jones
looked around for a doorbell, finally located a little iron lever that
protruded out of a slit in one of the doors. He pulled it down and then
up again, and a bell made a dismal blink-blink-blink sound inside.
Jones waited, standing on his left foot, and the door opened slowly,
squeaking a little. Jones touched his hat and said: "Hello. Is Mr.
Hendrick Boone here, and if so, can I talk to him for a minute?"
"He's not here. He's really not here."
"Oh," said Jones.
She was a very small woman with gray hair that was puffed up in a

wide knot on the top of her head. She wore thick, rimless glasses and
behind them her eyes were a distorted blue, wide and a little frightened
and anxious to please. She wore a long skirt that rustled and a white
waist with lace stiffen the front. She had a timid, wavering smile.
"Where is he?" Jones asked.
"He's in the hospital."
"Hospital?" Jones repeated.
"Yes. He fell downstairs. Are you the man from the installment
company?"
"No," said Jones. "I'm a detective, believe it or not. I know I don't look
like one. I can't help that. I didn't pick this face, and, to tell the truth, I
don't think so much of it myself."
"Oh, but he didn't do it! Really he didn't, officer! He couldn't have, you
see. He's been in the hospital, and his condition is very serious, really if
is, and he couldn't have done it."
"Done what?" said Jones.
She moved her hands a little, helplessly. "Well--well, whatever you
think he did. Was it--windows again?"
"Windows?" Jones asked.
"I mean, did you think he broke some windows, like he usually does?"
"He makes a habit of breaking windows?"
She nodded. "Oh, yes. But only plate glass ones."
"Particular, huh? What does he break windows for?"
Her sallow face flushed slightly. "He sees his image. You know, his
reflection. And he thinks he is following himself again. He thinks he is

spying on himself. And