Free The Yard by Alex Grecian Page B

mentioned just now that you are in the habit of reupholstering furniture? I suppose you use needles, thread, that sort of thing in your work?”
    “Of course I do. Of course. Needle and thread are the very foundation of the upholstery trade. And fabric, of course. Fabric and wood and iron. Mustn’t forget those. Fabric and wood most especially. Needle and thread and fabric and wood.”
    “Yes. I wonder if you might let us take a look at some of the tools you use in your very interesting trade.”
    “And iron. Did I forget iron? There’s a great deal of it used in some styles of furniture, you know. Not all, but some.”
    “You did indeed mention iron.”
    “Oh, good. Wouldn’t do to forget. Wouldn’t do at all.”
    “No, I don’t suppose it would. Your tools, sir?”
    “Oh, of course. Please, come with me. Certainly, certainly. Come, come.”
    The little man disappeared back through the door on the far wall.
    “Our furniture maker seems a bit nervous, doesn’t he?” Kingsley said.
    “He certainly does,” Day said. “Certainly, certainly.”
    Kingsley smirked and held the door open for Day.
    The back room was a workshop, much larger than the storefront that clients saw.
    “Forgive the mess,” the little man said. “Wasn’t expecting you or I’d have tidied a bit. Wasn’t expecting anyone at all today. No one at all. Although of course one hopes for a smidgeon of surprise if one can get it. If it comes. If it’s good.”
    “I’m sorry,” Day said. “We didn’t catch your name, sir.”
    “Oh, my. Unforgivable of me. Absolutely unforgivable. Where are my manners?”
    Day waited. The little man bustled about, picking up bits of material and setting them next to other things without appearing to bring any order to the space. Giant spools of twine were strung on a series of bars that ran across the wall behind the main workspace. Shelves on the west wall of the room were lined with smaller spools of thread and fine chain stuck on pegs. The opposite wall was covered with bolts of fabric, jutting out on long wooden arms. A sewing machine was bolted to a stained but solid worktable that filled the center of the room. The rest of the table was covered with a jumble of fabric pieces and pots and brushes, loose springs and dowels and bins full of buttons. Behind the table, partially obscured by it, the corpse of a sofa squatted, its arms and back exposed, bits of cotton batting stapled haphazardly to its naked skeleton.
    “Your name, sir?”
    “Oh, my name. Oh, of course. My name is Frederick French. French asin French Furniture, you see, although too many think I work only with French imports. French imports from France, I mean.”
    “I see.”
    “Oh, no, no, no. I don’t mean that I
do
work with imports. Although of course I do. Of course I do. I’m perfectly capable of working with imported furniture and do so all the time. But I named the shop after myself, not after the country of France, you see?”
    “We do see. We do.”
    “Good, good.”
    “You say you were here all evening last?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid this poor chesterfield was rather badly abused by its former owner, and it’s taking some time to get it back up to snuff. Poor thing. One shouldn’t have children if one wants to own fine furniture. Really, one shouldn’t. Children are a bane.”
    “Are they?”
    “Oh, certainly. An absolute bane. Sticky and messy and always jumping about, ruining springs and wearing the texture off of everything within sight. An absolute bane.”
    “So you don’t particularly care for children, I take it.”
    “Not at all, not at all. They’re darling little things, I suppose. But we mustn’t let them on the furniture. Don’t have any myself. Children, I mean, not furniture. I have a good deal of furniture, of course. A good deal. But no children.”
    “Has another policeman been to visit recently? Another detective?”
    “Never! You’re the first. The absolute first.”
    “Sir,” Kingsley