Someone to watch over me

destination. When they reached the address they sought, the windows of the establishment were without glass and boarded up. “Rats!“ Robert exclaimed.
    “I can hear something going on inside. Let’s crash the party.”
    After much pounding on a locked door, a construction worker laden with a big charred plank opened it and said, “Yeah?“
    “What happened to the shop that was here?“ Walker asked. “I’m the Chief of Police of a town upriver and need some information.”
    The worker waved them in. “Burnt out, isn’t it?“ he said, pointing out the obvious.
    Robert and Howard just looked at each other. “Is there anyone around today from the company that used to be here?“
    “Maybe. They’re trying to get it going again. Waste of time, but who am I to complain about having a job? There’s a lanky blond guy hangs out most times, snooping to see if we’re really working. Wears a brown suit. Help yourself and look around.”
    There must have been twenty men working, going in and out the back door, presumably to an alley, carrying away trash or bringing in carpentry tools and wood and cans of paint. They finally spotted the one man in a suit.
    Howard cornered him delivering a tirade to a kid who’d dropped a paintbrush. “Be sure to clean that up before you use it. I’ll be watching that you do.”
    After the boy had escaped, Howard Walker showed his badge, and introduced himself. “Do you work for the company that occupied these premises?“
    “Of course I do. Would I be here in this rubble otherwise?“ the man said, not even giving them his name.
    Howard pretended with some effort that he was unaware of the man’s rudeness. “Let me explain, if I may. We have an unidentified body and he’s wearing one of your suits. We need someone in the company to measure it carefully and see if you have his name in your records. And maybe an address.”
    The man laughed. It was an ugly, vaguely victorious laugh. “All the records went up in flames. They were kept here, you see. Old Man Blackstone kept an eagle eye on everything. He even kept the records of men who’d died a generation ago, God knows why.“
    “Where does he live?“
    “Just around the corner.“ He gave the address. “But it’s useless. He’s as dotty and mean as a drunk goat. Good luck, boys.”
    They found the four-story town house easily, but getting in was harder. A granite-eyed butler with a fake British accent guarded the portal. “Mr. Blackstone sees no one without an appointment. Do you have one?“
    “No, but I’m the Law,“ Howard Walker said, just as pretentiously, “and I have the suit of a murdered man I need to show him.“ He thrust the paper bag into the arms of the butler. A sleeve dangled out, musty and dirty.
    The butler held it at arm’s length. “Mr. Blackstone won’t be interested in this.“
    “Then I’ll have to get a warrant and send the boys in blue to the door to deliver it. That won’t look good to the neighbors.”
    The butler waffled, trying to force the bag back on Walker.
    “Let the man himself decide if he will see us,“ Walker said. “We’ll wait out here on the stoop.“
    “We call it a porch,“ the butler said, taking yet more umbrage.
    “I live in a mansion that has a porch that puts yours to shame,“ Robert said loftily, “and I’m not the Law. I’m a third-generation customer.”
    That did it. The butler slammed the door but kept the bag.
    “Are you really a third-generation customer of this outfit?“ Walker asked.
    Robert shrugged. “Never even heard of the place. I just hoped it would work.”
    It did.
    The butler looked even angrier as he returned fifteen minutes later without the paper bag. As if he’d forgotten the previous encounter, he said stiffly, “Mr. Blackstone will see you in the library.”
    The elderly Mr. Blackstone, wearing an ancient black velvet smoking jacket, white hair askew, had cleared off a big table, laid out the suit, and was examining it with a magnifying glass and a long ruler. If he was as dotty as his underling im- plied, he must have been having an especially lucid day.
    He glanced up briefly, assessing their garb. Walker wasn’t in uniform, but Mr. Blackstone knew suits. He immediately dismissed Walker on the basis of his clothing.
    “That’s an old one you’ve got on, son,“ he said to Robert. “Who are you?“
    “I’m a Brewster and my mother was a Vanderbilt,“ Robert half lied.
    The old man nodded. “But you didn’t