how much money Uncle Charley had, but he was sure it was more than some of the social reformers thought any man ought to have.
Harvey wouldn’t ask his uncle for money. Harvey’s pride got in the way. Besides, he had several times made it clear that he had no use for the man because of his reputation for selfishness, mercilessness in financial deals, and his annoying eccentricity.
Julie smiled as she thought of Harvey and walked briskly across an unlighted intersection. Randolph Street, that was. Now you counted four houses from the corner, and Uncle Charley’s was the one that looked like a squat “A” on top of a flat “H.”
The house sat thirty feet back from the sidewalk. Two maples dwarfed it, shrouded it, reduced it to something you could pass every day without noticing.
Julie had never been there, but Harvey had pointed it out to her. She had met Uncle Charley just twice—both times unavoidably.
She stopped on the sidewalk and stared in at the house. Somebody was standing on the stoop at the south side of Uncle Charley’s door—a scarcely discernible figure pancaked against the wall, watching her.
“Is that you, Mr. Pedlow?” she called nervously.
The shadowy figure moved a little. Something metallic dropped to the stoop, rang like a cracked bell. Whoever it was, there on the stoop, turned and ran into the shadows along the south side of the house.
Julie shivered and pulled the silver fox pelts closer about her throat. She had worn the furs chiefly because of what they did for her morale, but she was glad of them now for another reason; the June night had suddenly become chill.
She clutched her large handbag under her arm, drew a long breath, took resolute steps up the brick approach walk and onto the stoop. She could find no bell-push in the dark, so she knocked.
In a little while, she heard footsteps through the paper-thin walls. There was a slim show of yellow light, soon blotted out by the advancing figure of a man. A key turned over, a knob rattled, and the door opened far enough to allow a shaggy gray head to thrust out.
Julie spoke hurriedly.
“Mr. Pedlow. I’m Harvey’s wife.”
“Well, well!” Uncle Charley sounded highly pleased. He opened the door fully, clicked on the ceiling light of the living room.
He was a tall, gaunt man of fifty-five. His shoulders were pulled down to a slope by wide blue suspenders. He wore brown wool pants so much larger around the waist than he was that there was a sort of Kangaroo pouch in front. He clung to the door frame and swayed over Julie. He was chuckling and she realized he’d been drinking.
“I don’t remember your name,” he said.
“Julie.”
“Sure,” he said with an attempt at heartiness. “Sure, it’s Julie. You come right in, Julie, and have a chair.” He backed unsteadily, spread his arms in a wide gesture.
“Thanks,” she said, and then she added, “Uncle Charley.”
There was one chair to have, a lopsided platform rocker. An oak library table occupied the center of the floor. On it was a pottery lamp connected to the ceiling fixture. A couch covered with artificial leather was the only other piece of furniture. The ragged carpet on the floor was felted with cat hairs.
Of course, there were cats. Julie counted five of the creatures without trying, and then there were two more. She remembered that one of the things Harvey held against Uncle Charley was his love of cats.
“Nasty little insincere animals, cats,” was Harvey’s opinion. “They’ll go to anybody who feeds them.”
Julie rather liked cats, but not to the extent that Uncle Charley did. Seven cats, ranging from a half-grown calico that was pretending that Julie was frightening, to a huge gray Tom with one eye and a chewed ear.
“Like cats, Julie?” Uncle Charley asked.
She said that she did. She took her eyes off the ugly gray tom who was acting coy around the platform of the rocker, and looked at Uncle Charley.
Uncle Charley wasn’t exactly beautiful. He had yellowish eyes like the yellow cat that was rubbing on his pants legs. A four-day gray beard stubble sprouted from his hollow cheeks. His nose was almost thin enough to have an edge on it.
Uncle Charley looked right back at her and grinned. It wasn’t exactly a nice grin. The grin somehow reminded her of the shadowy figure she had seen lurking around Uncle Charley’s front door.
“By the way, did someone leave here just before I arrived?” she queried.
“Leave?” Uncle Charley shook his head. He kept looking at her. She wasn’t sorry that he found her attractive. But there was such a thing as carrying appreciation too far. She pulled her fur a little closer around her neck and gave the navy blue skirt of her suit a prim tug.
“I came to talk to you about Harvey,” she said quickly. “Harvey and his new business.”
“Harvey?” Uncle Charley made a face as though he wasn’t pleased to be reminded of Harvey. “Oh, Harvey.” He winked at Julie. “Which reminds me—”
He went stumbling back through the cased opening into the dining room. A black cat lurked there in the shadows and yowled. Uncle Charley opened the kitchen door and disappeared into the room beyond.
A white cat came out of the dining room and straight toward Julie as if bent on something important. It sat down six feet in front of the patent rocker and began to wash its face.
The calico half-kitten came romping out from the couch, its hind parts making more rapid progress than its forelegs. An alley tiger intercepted the calico and batted it for a loop. The ugly gray cat rubbed against Julie’s ankles and purred like Harvey’s electric razor on a cold morning. He left short gray hairs clinging to the smooth surface of Julie’s stockings.
“Go away,” she said to the battle-scarred veteran, and suppressed an uneasy shudder. For no reason at all, her nerves were tight with strain.
Uncle Charley emerged from the kitchen with two fingers stuck down inside two water tumblers he was carrying and a squat bottle of brandy in his other hand.
“Speaking of Harvey always reminds me to take a drink,” he said. “A puritan, Harvey.”
“You just don’t know him,” Julie said. “I don’t think you ever tried very hard to know him.”
“Ha!” Uncle Charley put the glasses down on the library table and poured a generous portion into each tumbler. “Here you are, Julie.” He handed her a glass. “This is mighty good stuff.”
It was, in spite of the memory of Uncle Charley’s none-too-clean fingers. It tasted like the brandy that was served in the Stork Club.
“Harvey doesn’t drink,” Uncle Charley said.
“Sometimes,” she contradicted. At Christmas Harvey would drink, or when he was in Chicago entertaining some business associate.
“Harvey doesn’t know he’s alive,” Uncle Charley said. Then he started
