The crime occurred in mid-summer when most of the surrounding neighbours had fled to the shore, or an upstate lake in the mountains, or even to the cooler latitudes of Europe. The house, among all the other houses in that venerable neighborhood, was not the most opulent, yet, if only for its sheer size and presence, it would stand out anywhere for its sheer size and presence. Owen Jenks had passed it many times on the way to his handyman duties. Like so many of the other homes, it had a story to tell: an old house, an old man, and a lot of old money. That geezer is supposed to be worth millions. He’s senile—always been a little odd. They say he leaves cash and jewelry all over the place.
Petty thief that he was (a few trinkets here and there, a bauble on a dresser top, small change that wouldn’t likely be missed), Jenks had always pictured the inside and mentally cased the premises, even while admitting to himself he probably could never pull off a caper of such magnitude.
As chance would have it, one day, while scanning the weekly neighbourhood newsletter, Jenks spotted a help wanted advertisement for a general handyman. He made a phone call and found himself connected to the son-in-law of none other than that old man in that formidable house.
“He drives both my wife and me crazy worrying about him,” the son-in-law explained. “He won’t give up his driver’s license. Last I looked, he’d sideswiped the gate getting in or out—he doesn’t recall which. Disappears for days at a time. Forgets to set the security alarm, and leaves keys everywhere so anyone could steal them and make a copy. And the place is falling down around his ears. I have a business to run and want to have a life outside of it. I can’t be running up there all the time to fix things.”
The next day found the two of them, Jenks and the old man, face to face in the massive front hallway of the mansion, a setting worthy of an opulent hotel that had seen better times.
“I don’t move about as well as I used to,” said the old man. “I need someone to make little repairs, change lightbulbs, silence those awful, chirping smoke alarms, clean out the drains, things like that. My worthless son-in-law claims he doesn’t have the time. Better off without him around. But you need to know I’m not made of money, regardless of whatever they say, so you better give me your best price right up front.”
Jenks wasn’t prepared for any of this. He searched his mind frantically and finally mumbled his hourly rate, anxious to fill the uncomfortable silence.
The old man didn’t say “yes” or “no,” he just headed into the large living room where he stopped and turned. “Come on. What are you waiting for? Let’s get to it.” Jenks spent the rest of the morning taking notes on the little notepad he always carried. Shower grout. Loose toilet seat. Window stuck in 3rd bedroom. Smoke alarm in basement. Loose banister second floor. He also took note of places where all that money and all those watches and jewels might be and mentally catalogued rooms that showed promise of treasure.
He’d been at it now for over a week, fixing this and fixing that, adding and subtracting from the to-do list. On Friday, he finally got to that stuck window. It was in a third-floor bedroom that clearly had not been occupied any time recently—likely not for decades. He pushed and tugged on the window frame, resorting to driving a shim beneath it and prying until it finally popped free.
Relieved, he sat down on the small bed behind him. A child’s bed. It still had ruffled pillows on it. A little girl’s, he supposed. After a minute or so, he rose and walked about the room. There was a dresser and a small table. He began to open the drawers of the dresser. In the third drawer down, beneath a small blanket, was a stack of money—new bills, bundled as if fresh from the bank. Was this proof of the legends he’d heard for so long, all that jewelry and money left carelessly about? His heart racing, he was torn between grabbing the bills and the sudden fear that the old man had set a trap for him. He breathed hard and, before he could change his mind, bolted to the hallway door and down the stairs, running, sliding, falling.
It was nearly a week before Jenks returned to the mansion.
“Where have you been? The kitchen faucet has been drip, drip, dripping for the last three days. And my reading lamp keeps flickering,”
Jenks put forth a feeble excuse that didn’t convince either of them. “I had a bad cold,” was the best he could come up with. Both men proceeded into the dark depths of the hallway towards the kitchen without further discussion.
The sink was clearly original, the faucets ornate, though crusted with rust and other, indistinguishable grime. Jenks lowered himself to his knees and opened the twin doors beneath it. It was all so shabby; he suggested it would be better to just rip it out and install a new one.
The old man protested, “No. The plumbing in this house was the best available at the time. I’m sure you can put in a washer or something. I don’t see how buying a whole new sink fixes the problem.”
Upon returning from the hardware store with a packet of washers he hoped would fit, Jenks resumed his position on the floor and once more peered within. He needed a place to set down his tools. Pushing aside a myriad of cans and bottles of soaps and cleansers, he lifted a small box of sponges. There, in the space beneath, was more money. Fewer bills this time, but maybe two, three hundred dollars. He admonished himself for having picked them up and carefully set the box down atop them once more.
He shut off the water and stood to begin disassembling the faucet. Once the job was done, he dropped down again to turn the water back on. To his right, in the periphery of his vision, was that box of sponges. He wanted to look. He tried not to look. Shutting his eyes, he turned the water on and stood. What was the old man thinking? An obvious trick. Why was the old man playing games? Or, was it—once again, and according to the legends—no game, simply an eccentric person hiding his possessions?
A new day, and Jenks was happy to be working outside. The old man had asked him to repair the garden path that had fallen into disrepair. Surely, out in the open, there would be nothing to tempt him. Jenks brought his digging tools and a large mallet to break up the heavy stones.
Around noon, with the sun high and hot, he sat down in the shade of a little garden hut. Like everything else, it was somewhat worse for wear but still usable. He drank from his thermos, ate his usual sandwich, and rested. The door to the little hut stood ajar.
He finished early, not yielding to the lure of that open door. In his haste to get away, he left his toolbox—something he would have never done otherwise. And also that heavy mallet he’d used to break up the garden path. But they would be waiting for him tomorrow, for sure.
A night of tossing about in bed. Thoughts confused with dreams. Just a peek inside that little hut wouldn’t hurt. Didn’t even need to step beyond the threshold, he told himself. And so the next day, he yielded. And just inside, on a small table, were watches and rings and jewels, the latter aglow, lit by a shaft of morning sunlight from a tiny window. He didn’t know a lot about fine things. He’d certainly heard about Rolexes and names like Cartier and Tiffany, but that was it—he only knew that they were for the rich and far beyond his reach. Or were they? But he caught himself once more. Look, Jenks, don’t touch. And he obeyed.
After a day’s work, Jenks liked to retire to his favorite local pub, Mildred’s, for a libation. Or two or three. Sometimes more. There was no one else at home anyway. In the past, there’d been a woman, a wife, in fact. And a few other women for short stays at one time or another. Now it was just Jenks and a lot of memories he chose to forget nightly at Mildred’s. He liked to call himself a “recovering alcoholic,” and would laugh and say, “Right now, I’m recovering from drinking too much last night.” And that would be the case for many a night, including this particular one.
A couple of the local boys who hung around to play pool and sponge drinks off the inebriated regulars came over to his table and started a conversation. Maybe he’d buy a round or two, as he had in the past. Jenks extended a hand and the pair sat down. By now, feeling the effects of his evening’s consumption, Jenks’ tongue became looser and looser as he began recounting what he’d seen that day and on previous days. The two other men listened with interest, exchanging an occasional glance. He crouched down. “Let me tell you something. What they say about the old man at that big castle up there, it’s true, it’s all true. I’ve seen it. The money. And the jewelry. It’s all there.”
The next day, he remembered little, as usual. He was stretched out on his bed, still in his work clothes. He filled in the gaps with his imagination. Not hard to do, as he had done that so often before. He went up to the house before noon. The old man was somewhere else that day. Jenks finished the garden path by three and left his tools behind once more, this time on purpose.
Returning to his apartment, he rested again until dusk, then closed the door behind him and headed once more up the hill, shrouded in complete darkness by the time he reached the top. He pushed open the garden gate and went to find his toolbox. He didn’t notice that the mallet was missing. Wouldn’t need it anyway for what he had planned.
The keys he’d stolen and copied were not necessary, either. The front door yielded to his touch, and he moved on down the hallway. This was going to be even easier than he’d thought. He turned at the central stairwell and approached the kitchen behind it, a path he’d memorized well.
Once through the wide kitchen door, he realized he was not alone. Was it the old man? Or someone else? It was, in fact, two figures, both wearing disguises. Whoever they were, they came rushing towards him, the one pausing only to hand him a heavy mallet, now covered in blood. “Here. We won’t be needing this anymore.” Jenks recognized the mallet as his. And the voice was somehow familiar. The pair ran back down the hallway towards the front entry. There was a still figure on the floor. Terrified, Jenks turned to leave but was frozen in place— for how long, we will never know. And now, someone was blocking his way—perhaps a curious neighbour upon hearing the commotion, or seeing strangers at night next door. Soon, there would be more onlookers. And the police. And they would see him just standing there, over a lifeless body, his own bloody mallet in hand. He didn’t yet realize it, but Owen Jenks had just graduated from petty theft to murder one.