Love for Sale

especially hard to do. I’ve managed to find people to adopt two of them, but there are still six of them here, with one teacher. You wouldn’t like to take one, would you?”
    Walker shook his head. “I’m single. I couldn’t take care of a child. But I’ll ask around Voorburg. Maybe Mrs. White, our local do-gooder, could help out.“
    “Would you like me to show you the rest of the place?“
    “I certainly would, if you have the time.”
    She showed him the rest of the second floor first. Most of the bedrooms on the north wing had been converted to offices. The offices of both Jackson Kinsey, the sleazy attorney, and Big Jimmy Rennie, the treasurer, were opulent. Nobby Hazard’s was bleak and still stank of his hair oil.
    The south wing consisted of only two bedrooms. One was gigantic and flamboyant, with a large fireplace, a huge bed with a canopy of red velvet, a well-stocked bar with silver decanters and crystal glasses, and a vast bathroom with a deep tub complete with gold fittings. Pottinger didn’t stint on his luxuries. It looked like a high-class whorehouse.
    Edward Price had a modest bedroom next to Pottinger’s disgusting one. Price’s room was neat and efficient and had nothing personal except a picture of a young woman who was probably a girlfriend or maybe the sister he was staying with. A few of his clothes that he hadn’t yet taken away were hanging in the closet.
    The rest of the rooms were for the daily drudges—the men and women who sent out the fliers announcing Pottinger’s speeches. These offices were empty and abandoned.
    This reminded Walker of the address book. When the tour was done, he’d have to have a talk with Mrs. Taylor about the women whose names had been crossed out in it.
    Next Mrs. Taylor showed him around the outbuildings. The garage contained two very expensive touring cars. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who’d take these off our hands?“
    “I’m afraid not. I don’t know anybody with that kind of money.“
    “They’ll go cheap,“ she said with a smile. “Practically anybody who can afford to buy the gas to run them could buy them for a pittance.”
    He smiled back at her. “I’ll see if our Mrs. White knows anybody. She might want to contribute one of them to our minister. He’s driving an ancient wreck she claims is below his dignity.”
    The building next to the garage was a big shed, nearly empty. It contained only an old lawn mower, a couple of loppers, clippers, some incidental hardware, and a toolbox. He’d noticed on his approach to the Institute that the grounds had no gardens whatsoever. Just paths and grass. One room of the shed contained a bed, a hot plate, an empty wardrobe, and a primitive bathroom set up in the corner.
    “This obviously belonged to the groundskeeper,“ Mrs. Taylor said. “He’s gone now. If we can’t unload this place until spring comes, we’ll have to find someone else to cut the grass.”
    She then led him to a house that looked like a converted barn behind the two structures. It was a moderately sized but shabby house.
    Mrs. Taylor said, “This is where the orphans live. Come meet them.”
    The remaining children appeared to Walker to range in age from five to eleven or twelve years old. They were adequately well dressed and apparently healthy. There was no sign of the work they had previously done making the collection baskets except some little nicks and scars on their hands. It made him hate Pottinger even more than before.
    There was a side room with little cots that broke Walker’s heart. The room was barren. The sheets and blankets were coarse and ugly. The beds themselves were obviously too small for some of the larger, older children.
    The big middle workroom was now a classroom where an elderly lady was teaching them to , read.
    Mrs. Taylor told Walker, “This is Miss Perkins, who’s staying on for a while. Miss Perkins, this is Chief of Police Walker from Voorburg. He’s in charge of“—she lowered her voice so the children couldn’t hear—“the murder investigation.“
    “I’m pleased to meet you,“ Miss Perkins said in a sweet and surprisingly young-sounding voice. She turned to Mrs. Taylor and said plaintively, “I wish we could get Miss Waywright back. She was much better than I am at this.”
    She went back to the youngest children, two pretty little blond girls who were learning the alphabet. The other children just stared at him with blank looks.
    Walker decided then and