Coxeter groups play a central role in the understanding of four-dimensional symmetries.
Art nodded in agreement. The paper he was reading discussed the Coxeter groups' impact on four-dimensional geometry. The author gave an outline of the groups' numerous applications. On a normal day, this topic would have had the power to hold Art's attention. It would have securely tied his thoughts to his work.
But today his mind rejected all academic fetters and kept wandering, returning to the nightmare that had haunted him last night—a dream where hands were strangling a wrinkled neck.
His gaze went to the scenery outside his office window, seeking out the normalcy at display there. The campus grounds were a neatly tended park, with trimmed bushes, stone walkways, and green lawns. A rectangular pond bordered the building of his department. Two ducks were cruising its waters. Their tiny heads moved back and forth in synchronicity with their paddling feet—like wind-up toys. The waves in their wakes displayed a complex yet regular interference pattern of ripples.
He sighed and got up. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. Monday was his laundry day. He would have to head home early, hunt down all dirty pieces of clothing in his apartment, and feed them to the behemoth of a machine in the laundry room.
His thoughts of sanitation were interrupted by the chirping noise of his mobile phone. The caller's number wasn't familiar.
He accepted the call. "Yes?"
"This is Betty Bossi from the municipal police. Am I talking to Mr. Sharpe?"
"Yes, that's me." Art remembered the name and the freckled face that came with it—she was the ponytailed police officer, Inspector Savage's assistant, or whatever.
"I'm so sorry to disturb you. But we have a search warrant for the apartments at Dumstreet 9. We also have to check out yours. It's just a routine investigation, you see." Her voice was devoid of emotion, professional.
"So," she continued, "I wanted to ask if you're at home tonight."
"Yes, I'll be there." He looked forward to seeing her freckles again. "When do you want to come?"
"Our people will be in the house all day. But I'll be there between six and eight p.m."
Art nodded. "Yeah, that's no problem. I have to wash my laundry today, so I'll be around anyway."
"Excellent. I do appreciate your cooperation. I'll see you then. Thanks."
"You're welcome. See you tonight." Art smiled at his phone.
"Yeah. Bye."
His own bye collided with the sound of her disconnecting the line.
He would have to clean up his apartment before Bossi arrived.
Arrived to search my apartment.
A feeling of unease was forming in his stomach, creeping up his spine, lingering in his throat, and finally reaching his mind. He had nothing to hide, yet the thought of them going through his stuff was disturbing.
The laundry machine and its twin, the dryer, dominated the communal washing room—a double-altar erected as a tribute to the spirit of sanitation, whose power was strong here.
The mighty maw of the device stood open, waiting for Art to feed it with the pair of socks he held in his hands. But his eyes were on the piece of paper taped to the whitewashed wall behind the appliance. It was the authoritative list of the laundry days at Dumstreet 9.
Laundry days
Monday: Art Sharpe
Tuesday: Monica Marez
Wednesday: Rashid Pathan
Thursday: Adriana Costello
Friday: Gertrude Knooch
Saturday: Agatha & Ralph Meier
Laundry can be hung up to dry overnight but must be removed by 9 a.m. next morning.
All tenants are asked to sweep the laundry room after use. Thanks.
Who would get the Fridays now? Could Mrs. Meier be persuaded to favor him? He hated to have to do his laundry on Mondays because it made him miss the evening seminars that the department held on that day.
With a sigh, he tossed the socks into the cavernous drum, which was already nearly full of what counted as colored fabrics in Art's wardrobe. Most of it was gray, blue, or black.
He closed the door, added the pungent detergent to the dispenser, selected the program, and hit the start button. The drum began its motion, and he placed a hand on the metal casing. The regular, laborious rumble had a predictable, reassuring rhythm to it.
His eyes fell on a white piece of clothing lying on the floor, half-hidden behind the dryer. He picked it up. The tissue was soft between his fingers. It wasn't his—it was a woman's blouse. It looked like the one he had brushed from Mrs. Knooch's basket a few days ago. Holding it to his nose, he registered a faint whiff of mothballs.
Standing there, with the probably Knooch's garment in his hands, he considered the wisest course of action.
She'll never wear this again.
On his way up, he stopped at Mrs. Meier's door. It was 5:05 p.m., and there was still time until Bossi and her search squad would arrive.
Would it be irreverent to ask for Mrs. Knooch's Friday laundry day now?
Way back, when he was married, Jane would have handled these things for him, the complicated, intricate human stuff. She was better at it than he was.
But Jane was busy handling Danny's stuff now.
He clung to the blouse he still held in his hand, pressed his lips together, and rang Mrs. Meier's bell. It sounded like a miniature fire alert, an irritated and angry buzz.
The door opened on Mrs. Meier and her toothy smile.
"Mr. Sharpe?" Astonishment carried in her voice.
"Good evening, Mrs. Meier." He held up the blouse. "I've found this in the laundry room."
She took it. "That's... not yours."
"Definitely not." He shook his head. "I think it's... Mrs. Knooch's."
She held it up with two hands, inspecting it. "Yes, this may be. Where, exactly, did you find it?"
"It was on the floor, halfway behind the dryer."
"I see." She smiled at him. "Thanks. My son will give it to the police."
"Thank you..." He hesitated. "There's one more thing, about the laundry days..."
Her smile disappeared, Bordeaux lips hiding her large teeth. "Yes?"
"You see... at the university, we have a seminar on Monday evenings."
It was indeed irreverent to ask for Knooch's washing day today, he realized. But it was too late now; he was committed, like the Titanic going for the iceberg—seeing it, but too late to stop or to turn. "So, I wondered if it was possible to change my laundry day. To get another one." At least he had found a way to avoid mentioning her.
"You want Mrs. Knooch's Fridays?" Her eyebrows rose, pushing an abundance of skin onto her forehead, where it generated a skinscape of parallel ridges.
"Oh..." He raised his eyebrows in an attempt at looking innocent. "Which one was hers?"
"Friday. She had the Fridays."
"Ah, Friday would be fine." He smiled.
Mrs. Meier tilted her head, and her teeth made another appearance. "You know, my son and I are just having coffee. Would you like to join us?"
That was unexpected, but he decided to go with the flow. "Yeah, thanks." It would probably be rude to deny, and complying might help him to get the Fridays.
And he wasn't too afraid of Mrs. Meier's coffee containing more than trace amounts of caffeine.