When Old Men Die by Bill Crider Page B

been trimmed back from the sidewalk in quite a while, and only about half its width was visible.
    The porch roof rose up two stories above my head, and I wondered how many people it would take to encircle the columns with their arms.   Three?   Four?
    There was no doorbell, but there was a large brass knocker covered with greenish corrosion.   I used it to give a few discreet taps.
    I didn't hear any footsteps in the hallway, but the door swung open.   There was a young man standing there, about twenty-five, maybe a year or two older.   He was good looking in an outdoorsy sort of way, and he was wearing rubber-soled hiking boots, which is why I hadn't heard him in the hall.
    "Truman Smith?" he asked.   He didn't look especially happy to see me.
    "That's me," I said.   I would have given him a card, but I don't have any cards.
    "Come on in," he said, and I did.
    I gave my surroundings the once-over so I could report to Nancy, who was going to be disappointed if she thought the house was filled with magnificent treasures.   The hallway was completely bare, from its tile floor to its high ceiling.   The wallpaper was peeling away, and in places it was completely missing.   I could see something that looked like canvas on the walls.
    "He's back in his room," the young man said, and turned down the hall.   "You can follow me."
    I tagged along obediently, and we entered what must have been the living room at one time.   Or maybe it would have been called the parlor.   It was nearly as bare as the hallway, and the little furniture it contained was covered with dusty cloths that swept down to the floor.   The chandelier was nice, however.
    We went through that room and down another hall, where the young man stopped and knocked on a door.   Without waiting for an answer from inside the room, he swung the door open.
    "Here's Mr. Smith," he said, motioning for me to enter.
    I walked past him and into a room right out of the nineteenth century.   It held a canopy bed, an armoire with mirrored doors, a writing desk, a washstand with a basin and pitcher sitting on it, and a spindly-legged wooden chair with an embroidered cushion.
    There were only two modern things in the room.   One was a 13-inch TV set that sat on a small table.   The other was a La-Z-Boy recliner in which a white-haired man was sitting with a blanket over his legs.   There was a smell of mustiness and medication in the air, as if the window hadn't been opened in years, which it probably hadn't.
    "Thank you, Paul," the man said.   It was the same voice I'd heard on the phone.   "You may leave us now."
    There was no reply, but I heard the door close behind me.
    "I am Patrick Lytle," the white-haired man said.
    I guessed his age at about eighty.   His arms were thin and his eyes were watery, but he had the clear skin of a man of thirty.   I wondered what his secret was.
    "You'll excuse me if I remain seated."   He gestured to the blanket.   "I no longer have the use of my legs."
    "I'm sorry," I said.
    "Don't be.   It happened a long time ago, and I'm quite used to it now.   It's really no great loss.   I find that staying at home is preferable in many ways to leaving it.   Paul keeps me well supplied with whatever small needs I might have."
    "Paul is you son?"   There seemed to be a family resemblance.
    "My grandson.   I have no surviving children, Mr. Smith.   But I'm forgetting my manners.   Please have a seat."
    I wasn't sure the spindly chair would hold me, but it did.   I didn't bother trying to get comfortable.   In that chair, comfort would have been impossible.
    "Are you a private investigator, Mr. Smith?" Lytle asked.
    "I have a license.   I don't practice often."
    "I've seen private investigators on television," he said.   "Magnum.   Cannon.   Names like that."
    "Smith sounds kind of dull in that company," I said.   "Maybe I should change it to