The Alley (8 page)

"Mittens is here," Connie said. "You're not all alone, Wagsie."

Mittens had gone upstairs, and daughter Punk, looking like a tiger, was sprawled outdoors under the rose bush, one of her favorite sleeping places in the garden.

"Mittens will keep Wagsie company," Connie told Mama, hoping to console Mama as well as herself. "Probably she'll wash Wagsie's face when we're gone."

So she and Mama set out. They locked the two back doors and the cellar door. Then they locked the inner green front door. But—they did not lock the outer green front door. In fact, they left it wide open as they usually did for short periods of time.

They left at twelve, and they were gone a little less than an hour. Mama, who had said that she did not have much to get—that was what she always said—in the end bought about a million things—pies and pickles and everything—so the shopping cart was heavy, and she and Connie pulled it together. They soon reached the corner of their street, Story Street, and turned around it from Myrtle Avenue where the shops were—only one block away from the little houses, not far at all. From this corner one could plainly see the
little houses. They stood out, inviting and enchanting, in the midst of all this torn-down area with its no-front houses like stage sets. As Connie and Mama turned into their street, they noticed several men, four at least, and possibly five, leaving the front stoop of one of the little houses. Mama and Connie could not tell exactly which house they were leaving; but afterwards, recalling the scene, Mama said she had thought that they looked as though they were leaving one of the houses farther up the street, possibly either the Stuarts' or the Fabadessas'. Mama thought nothing of this because of the kind of weekend it was—Alumni Weekend. There were many out-of-towners, guests, on the campus, and she thought the clothes—for even from that distance she saw that the men had clothes piled over their arms—she thought that the clothes were probably academic robes or else just plain extra clothes. The men were also carrying what seemed to be little valises, further evidence that they were visitors.

Connie and Mama took their time coming up Story Street from Myrtle Avenue. The cart was heavy, and a loaf of bread kept tumbling out—lucky it was wrapped and not a French loaf. Finally they reached their house, number 175. They left the cart on the sidewalk because it was too heavy to drag up the four steps, and they were going to first unlock the door and then carry the parcels in, one by one, not to break their backs.

The minute they got to the top of the stoop, Mama said, "Hm, that's funny. The green door is closed. I thought I left the outer green door open—I
know
I left it open." Cautiously, she opened the outer green door, and immediately she and Connie smelled a strong whiff of smoke, cigarette smoke. In fact, on the floor of the vestibule lay a cigarette still burning.

("A clue!" said Billy Maloon, hearing Connie tell the tale later. "They could trace the burglars by the cigarette." "Clue ... ha!" Connie said to Billy. "There were many clues, but they kept none, the police kept none. They took no fingerprints, not even ... well, wait. You'll see what the policemen did and did not do....")

So, there the cigarette was, lying there, still smoking. Connie's mother stepped on it automatically. She always stepped on burning cigarettes, not to start forest fires. Connie did, too. And then Mama let out a startled gasp. "Connie!" she said. "Look at the door! The lock has been jimmied! We have been robbed! Those men we saw—but still—perhaps those men were not the burglars. Perhaps the burglars are still inside!" she said.

Tears popped into Connie's eyes, the way they always did when she was scared, though they did not roll down her cheeks the way they did Katy Starr's when she heard a scary story. Hastily, Connie and Mama went back down the steps and stood uncertainly by their cart. It is a terrible shock to see your house broken into.

Connie and Mama had cast one brief glance inside. The first thing that Connie had seen—she would never forget the sight so long as she lived—was Mittens crouching at the top of the stairs looking down at them, her eyes round and big, inscrutable and silent, and filled with disdain. It was too bad that Mittens could not speak English; but the mere fact that she was crouching there at the top of the stairs, and not in hiding, should have told Connie and Mama that the burglars were not still inside. Later they figured it out that probably Mittens had hidden somewhere throughout the entire burglary—in the attic or under a bed, in some secret, good place. She had probably enjoyed the unusual occurrence, for cats do like something novel.

In this one sweeping glance, Connie and Mama also saw Mama's big black handbag turned upside down—all its contents spilling out of it—on the George Washington chair. There hadn't been any money in it, fortunately, because Mama had taken her billfold with her to the A. & P. But if you have ever seen your own pocketbook turned upside down on a chair, the George Washington chair, and all your things—your eyeglasses, your pens and pencils, your Charga-plates—spilled out, you will know what a shock just the sight of that was to Mama and Connie.

("It's a wonder they did not take the Charga-plate and charge a lot of things at A. & S.—fur coats, hi-fi's, anything—your mother would have had to pay the bill," Billy Maloon suggested morosely later.

"O-oh, I never thought of that," said Connie wonderingly. She saw the possibilities. "How awful! They wouldn't do that. They were bad burglars, but they weren't that bad!")

So, there they were—Connie and Mama, standing bewilderedly outside by their cart, wondering were the burglars inside still or not—and Mama said, "Connie, go and get Charlotte Stuart as fast as you can. I'll wait here and see if anybody comes out."

Well, Connie had never done anything this important in her life before. It was like having to get help if someone has fallen, or calling an ambulance or the fire department or the police! Connie was scared, but she was happy. A burglary does not happen often, never that she could remember. And here it had happened to
them.
Her knees wobbled, but she was glad, anyway, that it was
their
house that had been burglared, not one of the other Alley houses. She ran to Mrs. Stuart's house, two doors down the street, and rang the bell. Thank goodness, Mrs. Stuart was at home. Keeping as calm and collected as Billy Maloon would, Connie said, "We have had burglars. Mama wants to know if you can come over right away. The door is broken open. Mama says the burglars may still be in the house."

"Burglarized!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart. Her voice was rewardingly shrill. Hastily drying her hands on her apron and swallowing some snack she had been eating, she came.

"Oh, Jane!" she said. (That was Mama's first name.)

"Look!" said Mama. That's all she said, and she showed Mrs. Stuart the jimmied-open inner door. Even the pretty white wooden framework of the door was splintered, chipped, and broken.

"O-oh!" gasped Charlotte Stuart. She was one of Mama's best friends in the Alley—the very sort of person you would run to first in case of fire, burglars, or accident. She was very brave. Mama said that some of the burglars might still be in the house, that her sudden return from the A. & P. might have caught them in the act, that they might be in closets somewhere. Yet Mrs. Stuart, not thinking of her own safety—Mama was thinking solely of Connie's—tore right into the house, and she telephoned the police. (The phone was in the living room on the bookcase, just five feet from the front door, so Connie and Mama could have rescued her if need be, if a burglar, trapped and violent, came skulking down the stairs. None did.) Mrs. Stuart then came back out, and rather breathless, she agreed with Connie's mother that now no one should go into the house at all until the police came and assured them that all the burglars were out. She was inclined to agree with Mama also that the men Mama had seen leaving one of the houses were probably the burglars. "But, who knows?" she said. "They
might
have been alumni. And the Fabadessas are having a lot of company today."

"How strange it is," thought Connie, "to stand outside your own house, its two front doors wide open for all the world to look inside, and yet not be able to go in. How strange that people, not people of the family or friends or neighbors, have been
inside
your house, have broken into it!" It was strange and frightening, but rather pleasant. Connie was inclined to agree with the cats, liking something novel. Then terror clutched Connie's heart. Where was Wags? Mittens had slithered outdoors and was crouching beside the cart, sniffing the bags, seeing if there was fish, enjoying everything. But, where was Wags?

"Wagsie!" Connie called gently. "Wagsie."

Ordinarily, when Mama and Connie came home from the store, Wags was waiting at the door, ready to give them a welcome, partly loving, partly reproachful. How could they leave her? Never do it again!

"Wagsie!" said Connie again.

At last they heard a slow shuffling sound from way inside the house, the kitchen, probably, and a clinking of Wagsie's chain collar and license tag. She came to them with hanging head and, trembling as though she had chills and fever, she came outdoors. Her great moplike ears drooped and practically touched the ground. Not only was Wags frightened, she was ashamed. She sat down close to Mama, leaning against her legs for comfort. Her trembling continued off and on, as she recalled the terrible ordeal, no doubt. Mama looked Wagsie over carefully. She did not seem to be hurt. "Just her feelings," said Connie confidently. With heavy eyes looking down to the ground, blinking, she was a sad contrast to Mittens, whose upturned, piquant little face said, "This is great, isn't it? What now? What next?"

Next, of course, were the police, and Mittens dashed in terror under the forsythia.

The police car came tearing into Story Street with sirens screaming; it stopped with a screech in front of the Ives's house. Two policemen, one large, one medium-sized, got out of the car, drew their revolvers, and roughly demanded, "Where are the burglars?"

Mama said, "I don't know. I don't know whether they are still in the house or not. We just got back from the store, and this is what we found." The two policeman cautiously entered the house. One pointed his revolver up the stairs, the other into the living room. "Come out, wherever you are," they said gruffly. "We have you covered," they said. ("It's just like a moving picture," thought Connie. "But it's not. It's real, it's real!")

No one came out. The two policemen went upstairs immediately; proceeding cautiously, haltingly, and with pistols pointing upward, they disappeared from the view of those in front of the house. Now there was silence, complete silence, except for a gruff remark now and then—"Look under the bed, Pat. Make sure they're not under the bed." Or, "Ippy! Did you look in the closet, there?" Or, "Come out, you rat. You're covered." Between these remarks was the same total silence. It was as though they were absent-minded actors, needing a bit of prompting.

Connie's heart pounded. "Wait 'til I tell Billy about this," she thought. She and Mama and Mrs. Stuart—Wags beside Mama, still shivering—remained in front of the house, talking and waiting for the two policemen to come out and say it was all right for them to go in now. Soon other neighbors came along; they wanted to know what had happened. To each of them, since they did not arrive at the same time, Mama had to relate all over again how she and Connie had been coming home from the A. & P. and how they had seen these four, or three men, or perhaps five—she had not thought to count them up; there seemed to be a lot of them, anyway—the whole story, including the burning butt, still lying on the floor of the vestibule, not to be touched, she cautioned, for it might be an important clue.

Suddenly Mama broke off, turned to Charlotte Stuart, and said, "Charlotte! Does it strike you that those two policemen have been upstairs in our house an awfully long time? I thought that all the police would do right now would be—go up through the house and then, when they saw no one was there, tell me, and I would go and see what, if anything, was taken. After all, the burglars may have been those men Connie and I saw, and for all I know, they may not have had time to take one thing, seeing Connie and me coming back from the A. & P. They might not even have gotten upstairs at all. I was just scared to go in until the police checked to make sure it was safe. How do I know whether or not those men were burglars or alumni?"