The Tin Box

The Tin Box

I was in the market for a new place to live and had an appointment with my realtor to check out a condominium in mid-town Memphis. As I pulled into a guest parking spot in front of the condo building, the message alert on my phone chimed. The name on the screen was Watts Realty. I read the text, “Sorry Paul, running a little late…be there by 2:45, 3 at the latest, I promise.” I was not surprised that Marcia Watts was running late, again. I glanced at my watch. It was twenty minutes after two. 

To kill time, I decided to check out the condo on my own. The building was a striking example of art deco architecture. An upscale complex of 30 units on six floors, it was built in the late 1920’s and recently refurbished—brought back to its original glory, or so I was told. According to my realtor, it was a rare event when one of the units came on the market. Marcia said I should consider myself lucky that two had suddenly been put up for sale. Both were empty, or in the process of being emptied. I might have my choice, if I moved quickly.

The condo building was on a corner, facing a busy thoroughfare. I checked the front entrance. As expected, it was locked. I walked around the side of the building, along a quiet, tree-lined street. Behind the building was a large open area enclosed by a stone wall. I wondered if there might be a swimming pool on the other side, but the wall was too high to see over. I headed back to the front. As I turned the corner, the door at the main entrance opened. A nondescript woman exited, heading away from me down the sidewalk. I hurried forward and managed to stop the door just before the latch caught. 

The art deco theme was carried into the lobby: numerous columns with straight, clean lines; Tiffany-style lamps suspended from high ceilings; groupings of couches and tables—stark, angular, stylish. It was all very impressive. At the rear of the lobby, just past an elevator, a central hallway led into the heart of the building. I didn’t know the numbers of the units for sale, but I knew that one of them was on the ground floor. I headed down the hallway in that direction.

About halfway down, the door to unit 104 stood slightly ajar. Could this be one of the available condos? I decided to sneak a quick look. Knocking started the door back on its hinges. As the door moved, it gained momentum, opening fully to reveal a young man sitting on one of several packing crates stacked in the middle of an otherwise empty living room. He looked up at me slowly. His handsome face bore an expression of utter despair. His eyes were red and swollen. He wore a stained and rumpled suit that looked as if it had been slept in. Then again, he looked like he hadn’t slept for days.

To avoid further invading his privacy, I started to withdraw. But he appeared so distraught and pathetic, I felt compelled to reach out, “Pardon me…are you alright? Do you need help?”

The young man stared blankly at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then his face brightened and he spoke quickly, haltingly, “Yes…yes, you might…you might do me a favor…a great favor.”

My curiosity was piqued. Perhaps this would provide an interesting diversion while I waited for Marcia Watts. The young man looked at me expectantly. I walked several paces into the room, and asked, “Yes? A favor?”

“Yes…a great favor. I need to get a box…a small tin box…from an apartment upstairs. It’s on the fifth floor, number 505. I have the key.” He began digging into his pockets, and after a bit of searching, produced a single key. He held it out to me.

I started to reach for the key, but a hint of suspicion held me back. I asked, “Why can’t you retrieve the box yourself?”

His face clouded. He appeared to be offended. But after a moment, his expression relaxed and he responded, “Yes…yes. I should explain …explain why I can’t go… up there...” His voice trailed off weakly.

I waited, but he was silent, trembling slightly. I tried to encourage him, “I don’t mind helping you if I can, but you need to give me some assurance that you have a right to the box. And I should also tell you that my time is short.” I looked down at my watch, adding, “I have an appointment in a few minutes.”

This seemed to afford the necessary motivation. The young man spoke quickly, “My name is Henry Wycliffe. This was my apartment, but I’m leaving it. The last of my things will be out today. I hope never to return here again. There are too many sad memories. I was engaged to a woman, the woman who lived in 505. We were to be married this summer. I loved her … loved her… so much.”

Henry’s voice broke, tears were streaming down his face, as he continued, “She died…died in a terrible car wreck. Her parents live up north. They had …had her body sent back to their hometown for burial. It was impossible for me to go…to go to her funeral.”

His head drooped and he covered his face with his hands, sobbing quietly. I waited patiently. After a long pause, he continued, “Her condo is for sale. The movers already took the furniture. Tomorrow, her parents are coming to take away the rest of her things. There is a box, a tin box. I think it’s in her closet. It’s full of letters I wrote to her…love letters, and poems, and silly notes. There are also a few letters she had written to me, that she took back for safe-keeping. And some photographs… Letters and photographs that might dishonor her memory, at least as far as her parents are concerned.” He looked at me expectantly, “Do you understand?”

I nodded, “Of course…of course I understand. Your consideration for her memory is surely commendable.”

Henry Wycliffe was in great distress, but managed to continue, “I’ve got to get that box. It should be in her closet, on one of the shelves. I must get the box out of her apartment today … before her parents get here. But I can’t. I can’t go up there. I just can’t. I can’t get up the nerve.”

His chest heaved with a great sob, and tears began to flow anew. Needless to say, I was quite touched by his story. “Rest assured,” I said, reaching out for the key, “I’ll get the box for you.”

Henry dropped the key into my open hand and smiled tearfully, a sad smile of relief and appreciation.

Back in the lobby, I took the elevator to the fifth floor and located unit 505. As I unlocked the door, the hair on my neck stood up. Walking into the condo, goosebumps came up on my arms and I began to shiver.

Suppressing these feelings of foreboding, I took a quick look around the apartment. I assumed it was the other unit for sale and I wanted not to like the place. I hoped the view was ugly, or the kitchen too small, or the floor plan flawed. I didn’t want to buy the dead girl’s apartment, but I didn’t want to pass it up due to some absurd superstitious apprehension. I was eager for a more rational reason to reject it. Unfortunately, it was perfect.

The rooms were bright and airy, with pleasing views from all the windows. The kitchen was large and recently updated with high-end appliances. The bathroom was tiled with expensive Italian marble, the fixtures upscale and chic. The bedroom was spacious with a handsome built-in desk and bookshelves in rich golden oak along one wall. On the other side of the room, a door stood open revealing a large walk-in closet. There was a woman’s bathrobe draped over the door. The sight of the robe gave me a chill and sent another shiver up my spine. I could certainly understand why Henry Wycliffe’s nerve might fail in anticipation of such a scene.

I walked into the closet, but didn’t have to search for the tin box. It was sitting on a shelf, facing me at eye level. It was about the size of a typical cigar box, but a bit deeper. The cover was painted with a scene of some medieval village. Along the sides, knights were jousting on horseback.

I should have taken the box directly back to Henry, but I didn’t. I returned to the living room and opened it. I knew my snooping was inappropriate, but I couldn’t help it. I told myself that I needed to make sure the box was just what it was supposed to be, but that was a lame rationalization. I was simply giving in to morbid curiosity. 

The box contained two packets tied with ribbons. One consisted of letters and papers. The other included several photographs. On top of the two packets was a single piece of folded notebook paper. I unfolded the paper and read. “O pretty girl, who trippest along, Come to my bed, it isn't wrong. Uncork the bottle, sing the song!” It was signed “Your Henry.”

I suddenly experienced the uncanny sensation that someone was watching me. I assumed it was my guilty conscience. But the sensation was so keen, I felt compelled to look around. As I did so, a strange sound came from the bedroom, a slight, muffled bumping and scraping. The hair on my neck stood up again. 

I refolded the paper and replaced it in the tin box. Despite an overwhelming sense of dread, I tiptoed quietly back to the bedroom and peeked in. The door to the walk-in closet was closed. The bathrobe was on the floor. “But that’s not possible,” I thought, “unless…” My head was buzzing and my heart thumped wildly in my chest. I dared go no further.

Backing away from the bedroom door, I left the apartment, heading down to the first floor. When I got back to Henry’s place, I found an older woman standing near the door with a large ring of keys. Inside, two workmen were loading Henry's crates onto a dolly. As I approached, the woman came forward, blocking the doorway. She addressed me in an unexpectedly hostile tone, “And just who might you be?”

Given my state of heightened emotional anxiety and her rude manner, it took me a moment to collect myself.

“Well?” she demanded impatiently.

After a pause, I managed to answer, “My name is Paul Roderick… I’m here to meet my realtor, Marcia Watts.”

She looked doubtful. I continued, “I have an appointment to take a look at the condos for sale. Would you mind telling me who you are?”

She glared at me for a moment, as if I had no right to question her, but finally condescended to acknowledge that she was the building’s property manager.

The men behind her had finished loading. They appeared to be awaiting the outcome of my interrogation before hauling the crates off. The woman pointed at the tin box in my hand and asked in a very accusatory voice, “Where did you get that?”

My face flushed with embarrassment at being confronted in that manner. I wasn’t sure what to say. She pointed again at the box, her voice becoming ever more shrill, “What are you doing with that? That’s not yours!”

“Th…th..this?” I stammered. “Yes, well… while waiting, I agreed to retrieve the box … as a favor to the young man in this apartment.”

Her eyebrows lifted in fierce arches. “What young man?” she virtually shouted.

“He said his name was Henry, Henry Wycliffe. He lives here, or used to live here.” I shrugged and motioning toward the dolly, added, “He’s just finishing up his move. He was here a moment ago. Where has he gone?”

She wagged an angry finger in my face, “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling. Henry Wycliffe is dead. He and his fiancée were killed in a tragic car wreck more than a month ago—a drunk-driving accident. She died instantly. He lingered for a couple of weeks in the hospital. They thought he might make it, but he didn’t. And it’s a damn good thing he didn’t. Henry could never have lived with the guilt. He was the drunk driver. The wreck was his fault. Now would you care to explain what you’re really up to? What are you, a private detective?”

My head was reeling. As unmanly as it sounds, I felt I was about to faint. Just at that moment, I was startled by a tap on my shoulder. Marcia Watts, my realtor, had come up behind me in the hallway. Her touch jolted me like an electric shock, bringing me back to my senses. Marcia just laughed and said, “Sorry Paul. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I handed the tin box to the property manager. “Madam,” I declared, “if you’ve a shred of decency, you’ll destroy the contents.”

I felt in my pocket for the key to 505. It was gone. I turned to Marcia, “Mark this option off your list. I have no interest in living here—there’s an appalling aura of necromancy about the place.”

The End