The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

there.”
    “Bingo.”
    A minute later, Jack was herding us again—this time we were heading downtown. Despite the slight limp from his old war wound, Jack guided us smoothly through the crowds, maneuvering our little group around men in fedoras, ladies in hats and round-toed pumps.
    The Big Apple’s blocks were lined with restaurants, bars, and stone stoops leading up to residential buildings—places that looked much the same as they had during my own years working in the city. But there were other sights, too, things I’d never seen in my time: an antiques store with a wooden Indian chief standing guard, a barber shop with an old-fashioned candy-striped pole, a rustic food stand with fruits and vegetables displayed in wooden crates, and the kind of corner drugstores that had lunch counters and soda jerks.
    I noticed sidewalk shoeshine booths, too, and a hardware store with a dozen cast-iron potbellied stoves sitting out front. At the sight of them, I stopped and pointed.
    “Why in the world would a New Yorker need one of those?”
    A wood- or coal-burning stove might be useful in the country to warm a small unheated cabin, but this was the middle of Manhattan.
    Jack laughed. “Cold-water flats, baby. We still got ’em back here.”
    J. J. Conway’s residence turned out to be one of them. His building was a six-floor brownstone walkup—although we didn’t have to walk up . J. J. and his mom were renting a basement apartment.
    We moved along a dimly lit hallway, then down an even more dimly lit stairwell. There were only four doors along the basement corridor. J. J. pulled a key from the pocket of his wrinkled gabardine slacks, stepped toward the door marked B2, and froze.
    “That’s funny,” he said.
    “What’s funny?” I asked.
    “Door’s already opened.”
    I looked at the knob and lock. They were intact and unmolested. There was no break-in here. Someone had used a key. I began to hear sounds inside the apartment. Someone was loudly opening drawers, one after another. I put a hand on J. J.’s shoulder.
    “Maybe it’s your mom. Maybe she’s come back.”
    The boy stared up at me like a hopeful puppy. “You think so?”
    I moved forward, my hand reaching out to push the door all the way open, but I was suddenly jerked backward by a sharp tug on my elbow.
    “Jack! What are you—”
    “Stay quiet,” he whispered, glancing down. “Both of you.” His long left arm marshaled us behind him while his right hand dipped into his double-breasted jacket.
    “What are you doing?” I whispered.
    “You blew the call, honey.” He pulled his .45 free of its shoulder holster.
    “Wow.” At the sight of Jack’s gun, J. J.’s eyes went wide. “Lemme see!”
    “Shhh.” I grabbed J. J.’s small shoulders and maneuvered him behind me. “Jack, what’s going on?”
    “Those aren’t the sounds of some dame moving around her own apartment, baby. Someone’s tossing this place.”
    “Tossing?”
    “Ransacking it.”
    Jack held his gun with two hands. As he slowly pushed the door open with his foot, he brought the weapon level in front of him, quickly sweeping the room with the sight until—
    “Don’t move!”
    Jack stepped into the apartment.
    “Stay here,” I whispered to J. J., then followed Jack in.
    The basement room was small, dark, and sparsely furnished—a threadbare sofa and a scuffed wooden table with two unmatched chairs. The only natural light came from two barred windows high on one wall. A black potbellied stove stood off to the side, near a small white sink. Next to it, a line of cupboards and a closet stood with their doors wide open, their contents scattered. Through the open bedroom door I noticed a dresser with its drawers pulled out.
    Jack’s large body was closing in on a young man now stepping out of the bedroom. The intruder had olive skin, dark hair, and his frame was just about as skinny as the living room’s floor lamp. He stared at Jack with hard eyes, his hands holding a pillowcase stuffed with bulky items—presumably stolen from this apartment, but I couldn’t imagine what there was of value to steal.
    “Drop the bag,” Jack commanded, “and put your hands up.”
    The young man didn’t obey; he just kept moving away from the PI. The intruder didn’t appear armed, either, and I couldn’t imagine Jack would actually shoot an unarmed young man.
    Jack took a step closer. “Do you speak English?”
    The young man said nothing. And then, in an explosive