The Mysterious Disappearence of Leon (8 page)

“Free Mrs. Carillon! Free Mrs. Carillon!”

The rhythmic chant grew louder and louder. It soared over the noise of the traffic, up to the top of the prison. Outstretched arms of the women inmates waved at the protesters through the barred fence of the recreation yard on the roof of the jail.

“There she is! There’s Mrs. Carillon!” Tina cried, pointing to a plump arm waving a purple-flowered handkerchief.

“Free Mrs. Carillon! Free the orphans’ mother!”

“She’s gone!” gasped Tina. She searched for the familiar handkerchief among the waving arms, but it was no longer there.

“Maybe they put her in solitary,” suggested an alarmed Tony.

“Maybe she’s been eaten by a rat,” Tina shrieked. “Let me down, let me down! I want to confess!”

“Look!” All eyes followed Tony’s pointing finger. A plump woman in a purple-flowered dress emerged from the green copper gate of the prison. “It’s Mrs. Carillon!”

Fortunately, a policeman had halted all traffic, for Mrs. Carillon raced across the street to the traffic island without looking left or right. The twins were set down just as she arrived to clutch them in her arms.

In the midst of the laughing and shouting Tony suddenly remembered his friends. “Mrs. Carillon, this is Joel and this is Harry. They rescued you from the ‘pesthole.’”

Mrs. Carillon grasped their hands between hers. “How can I ever thank you?”

“It was the least we could do,” answered Harry. “You are a martyr, Mrs. Carillon.”

“A martyr?” she said in surprise. “I thought you had to be dead to be a martyr.”

“You are a
living
martyr, Mrs. Carillon,” Joel replied.

Traffic was moving again. Harry hailed a passing taxi and the weary threesome got in.

“One minute,” Mrs. Carillon said to the driver. She rolled down the window and called to Harry. “Maybe you can help my cellmate, Mineola Potts. She’s such a nice lady.”

“What’s she in for?”

“Jaywalking.”

No one noticed the pudgy man
²⁴
with rimless glasses and bandaged head who hurried out of the prison after Mrs. Carillon. No one heard him shout after the taxi, for the chant, “Free Mineola Potts,” was in full swell.

“Was she really arrested for jaywalking?” Tony asked.

“Indeed she was, poor woman,” Mrs. Carillon replied. “She was very hungry and had nothing to eat, so she borrowed two cans of lobster meat and a tin of caviar from the supermarket. She was jaywalking when the police stopped her.”

Tina sighed over the unhappy plight of poor, miserable Mineola Potts.

6
_*
A Familiar Face in a Dented Head

You!

Mrs. Carillon wanted to go home and jump into a hot tub, but was outvoted by the tired but hungrier twins, who insisted on describing their day’s adventure in full detail over hamburgers and ice cream sodas.

When they finally arrived at their apartment, Mrs. Baker greeted them with the news that they had a visitor.

“He’s been sitting there in the living room for an hour. He doesn’t say anything, just sits.”

Tina and Tony exchanged anxious glances. The only visitor they ever had was Mr. Banks, and he didn’t count. Tina asked the question they were all thinking.

“Does he have a red moustache and a black tie?”

“Nope,” said Mrs. Baker.

The short, pudgy man with rimless glasses and bandaged head rose timidly from his chair when they entered the room. “Mrs. C-C-Carillon, I. . .”

“You!” shouted Mrs. Carillon, pointing a menacing finger at the man whose cuff button had caught in her fishnet bag. “You!”

Mrs. Carillon’s finger made the little man so nervous he could scarcely speak. His words tripped over one another, then refused to come out at all.

Tina felt sorry for him, whoever he might be. “Won’t you sit down?” she said graciously.

Tony stayed close to Mrs. Carillon’s side to protect her from this unwelcome stranger, who nodded and smiled shyly at Tina but remained standing.

Mrs. Carillon studied him carefully. He looked harmless enough. Besides, there was something about him that reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t remember who.

“Well, what’s done is done,” she said with a sigh and wearily dropped into an armchair. Only then did her nervous guest sit down.

He began to stammer and stutter again, but finally, painfully, he delivered his message. He had come to apologize for the inconvenience he had caused Mrs. Carillon in Bloomingdale’s. He hoped she didn’t think he had done it deliberately.

Mrs. Carillon was forgiving.

He had tried to undo his cuff button from her fishnet bag; in the confusion he had only made it worse.

Mrs. Carillon was understanding.

He would have come to her aid sooner, but he was rushed to the hospital to have sixteen stitches put in his forehead.

Mrs. Carillon was sympathetic.

He was pleased that he had not been too late to put up bail in time to. . .”

“Bail?” Mrs. Carillon exclaimed.

“I thought the protest marchers freed Mrs. Carillon,” Tina said.

“Oh, n-n-no. I was happy to see that you have so m-m-many friends; but there are legal f-f-formalities, you know.”

“Then I’m not a living martyr after all.”

“Living m-m-martyr?” He had never heard that expression before. “You will have to face t-t-trial, so. . .”

“Trial?” Tina gasped, once again riddled with guilt.

“Trial?” echoed Mrs. Carillon.

It was up to Tony to play host. “My name is Tony and this is my sister Tina. What’s yours?”

The nervous man gave a nervous smile, which no one returned. “D-d-don’t you recognize me, Mrs. C-C-Carillon?”

Once again she studied the familiar face.

“Augie Kunkel!”

“Mrs. C-C-Carillon!”

They leaped from their seats and met in the middle of the room. Mrs. Carillon grabbed Augie Kunkel’s hands.

“Augie Kunkel,” she repeated.

“Mrs. C-C-Carillon.”

The joyous reunion didn’t last long; they couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Mrs. Carillon dropped her old friend’s hands and sank back into her chair. Augie Kunkel was well aware of her weariness. He made an awkward exit, taking short little bows while backing out toward the door. Mrs. Carillon watched her childhood playmate about to leave and was overcome with gratitude.

“Good night, Augie,” she said. “And thank you for everything. Won’t you join us for dinner tomorrow evening?”

Augie Kunkel’s face lit up with a broad smile, “a nice smile,” thought Mrs. Carillon. “Six o’clock, then,” she said as Tina closed the door after him.

“What a kind man,” Mrs. Carillon said. “What a shy creature.”

“Shy creature,” Tina repeated, half-asleep. “Like a bedbug.”

“Tina!”

A Namer of Things

Mr. Kunkel arrived on the dot of six, a few minutes after Mrs. Carillon returned from feeding the sea lions.

“So good of you to come, Augie,” she said.

Augie tried to think of something clever to say, but all that came out was a stammered, “F-f-fish?”

“Roast duck,” Tony answered.

“Strange, I c-c-could have sworn I smelled f-f-fish.” Too flustered to look at anyone, Mr. Kunkel began to examine the objects in the living room.

“A violet-glazed figure of the K’ang Hsi,” he said clearly and with authority.

“A pair of molded
flaschenhalter
,” he continued.

Tina was surprised that he wasn’t stuttering anymore; Tony was amazed that one person could know so much; and Mrs. Carillon was delighted to learn that her objects had names.

“Blanc de Chine
triple lichee box, a Regency carved giltwood
fauteuil
.”

“How do you know all that?” Tony asked.

“Oh, I read b-b-books and know how to look things up. I like to know the n-n-names of everything I see: t-t-trees, flowers, furniture, everything.”

“Does naming help you make up your mind about things?” Tony needed all the help he could get in this department.

“N-n-no, not really. I just n-n-name things; I n-n-never go so far as to form an opinion.” Mr. Kunkel stared down at the Oriental rug.
“Hamadan Serebend.”
He looked up at Tony and smiled shyly.

Tony had decided one thing: he liked Augie Kunkel. “I don’t see why everyone is supposed to have an opinion about everything all the time, anyway.”

“Dinner is served,” Tina announced upon a signal from Mrs. Baker.

“
Caneton à l’orange, petits pois, purée de pommes de terre.”
Augie Kunkel named the duck, peas, and mashed potatoes, then turned to Mrs. Carillon. “T-t-tell me about Leon.”

“Noel,” Tina said.

Mrs. Carillon told about her long search for her missing husband as quickly as possible, for the story always made her sad.

“P-p-poor Little Dumpling.”

The sound of her old nickname made Mrs. Carillon even sadder; but the twins, who had never heard it before, burst into convulsive giggles. Their laughter was finally cut short by the disapproving stare of Mrs. Baker arriving with a platter of second portions.

“More duck, Tony?”

“I don’t care,” he answered as usual.

“Yes or no,” Mrs. Baker insisted.

“That is q-q-quite a difficult decision if T-T-Tony doesn’t know what the d-d-dessert is,” said Mr. Kunkel, coming to the rescue.

“Peaches with ice cream,” replied Mrs. Baker.

“No, thank you,” said Tony, beaming at his new friend, “no more duck.”

“Tell me about yourself, Augie,” Mrs. Carillon said. “Is naming things a good job?”

“I don’t make my living n-n-naming things,” Augie answered gently. “It’s what you m-m-might call a hobby.”

“What do you do?” Tony asked. Whatever it was, that was what Tony wanted to do, unless he had to be fat to do it.

“I invent crossword puzzles.”

“Crossword puzzles!” Tina exclaimed. “You’re just the person we need to solve the
glub-blubs.”

I Never Wear Underwear

Mrs. Carillon sighed on hearing
glub-blubs;
she was sad again. And the sadder Mrs. Carillon became, the guiltier Tina felt.