Thursday, May 15th 8:00 A.M.
Scranton, Pennsylvania is one of those eastern cities whose past glories were years earlier than the memory of any living citizen. The city had struggled through the drabness of poverty and joblessness in an effort to raise itself from the ashes of long-dead industries. The effort, while commendable, was not wholly successful. The city had a tired, old look about it, especially in neighborhoods like the purported residence of J. Cleary.
ne fifty-seven Bascomb Place was a drab old building in a drab old section of the city with a faded "For Rent" sign permanently fixed to the front. It listed apartments, furnished or unfurnished and a telephone number, just in case someone should happen by. Fred wrote the number on his note pad. Four apartments, cleverly labeled A, B, C, and D were visible through the grimy windowpane of the front door. There were two units on either side, on both floors, divided by a central hall and staircase. Four mailboxes with corresponding letters were visible just inside the door: Apartment A listed the name, Aaron Levy, while B appeared vacant. Second floor apartment D showed the name Burgess but C, where J. Cleary was to reside, was also empty. Dean pushed each of the four buzzers, with zero response.
Fred tried the outside door and found it open. The years of habitation gave the place a thousand smells, none of them pleasant. A rap on the doors of the bottom two apartments brought no better results than the doorbell. They climbed the stairs but there was no sign of life and no answer to knocks. The door to C was bolted with a new padlock.
"It looks like our Mr. Cleary flew the coop," Fred said reluctantly. Dean agreed.
"The poor guy's probably some henpecked bank teller who rented this place trying to shack up with a honey and struck out. And here we are, acting like two heavies from the Church of Yesterday's Morals giving him a hard time."
Dean had given Fred the business the entire trip from Parkside but the old man remained undeterred. "Sex-starved bank tellers don't go subscribing to out of town newspapers," Fred grumbled in response.
It was still early and Dean figured they'd get back to Parkside in time for a few hours of biking. There was an upscale coffee shop a couple of blocks away and Fred suggested they stop for coffee. The place catered to the espresso crowd but Dean acquiesced.
"I'll order for us," Fred said. "Just give me a ten." Fred motioned to the telephone across the room. "You can call the landlord from here." Dean raised his eyebrows. "You ain't thinking of giving up so soon, are you?"