Figure it Out For Yourself (11 page)

'Did she look under the bed?'

'She cleans under it.'

'The cops found it last night. Did she clean under the bed yesterday morning?'

He nodded.

'What time?'

She was late. Perelli didn't leave the apartment until twelve thirty. She didn't start cleaning until one.'

'What time did the police find it?'

'Seven-thirty.'

'So between one-thirty in the afternoon and seven-thirty in the evening someone planted it. That's right, isn't it?'

'If anyone planted it.'

'Well, we won't argue about that. Sometime between one-thirty and seven-thirty either Perelli or someone brought a fishing-rod into this building. That's right, isn't it?'

He couldn't find any fault with that reasoning.

'Yep.'

'Are there any other entrances except the main one?'

'There's a rear entrance to the basement.'

'Can anyone get up to the apartments that way?'

'No.'

'Sure?'

'Certainly, I'm sure. The way this place is built, you either come in the main entrance or up the stairs from the rear entrance. Either way you have to cross the lobby and you'd be seen.'

'Where were you between one-thirty and seven-thirty last night?'

'At the movies.'

'You mean you weren't here yesterday afternoon and evening?'

'I was at the movies.'

'Your day off?'

'My day off.'

'Who was in charge of the lobby?'

'Gracie Lehmann.' Maxie took another pull at his can of beer, added, 'It's her day off today.'

'Have the police questioned her?'

'Why should they?'

'Didn't they want to know about the rod? I mean how it got into Perelli's room?'

'Why should they?'

I drank a little beer myself. He was right, of course. They had found the rod in Perelli's room, and that was good enough for them. They wouldn't bother to find out how it got there. It was there, and as far as they were concerned that was all that mattered.

'She could have seen someone bring the rod in, then?'

'If anyone brought it, she saw it.'

'She might have gone out to wash her hands or something?'

Maxie shook his head.

'The lobby ain't to be left a second. That's the rule of the house. She has a retiring room behind the switchboard. If she goes in there she turns down a switch connected with buzzers under the front and rear mats. Anyone coming in from the main entrance or up the stairs from the basement would sound the buzzer. It's foolproof. We had a lotta burglaries here one time. Now we really have to watch out. If anyone brought in the rod, she would have seen it.'

'We've just proved either Perelli or someone did bring it in. So she must have seen it.'

'That's right.'

I drained the can of beer and lit another cigarette. I was faintly excited.

'Want another?' Maxie asked, helping himself.

I nodded, and watched him hoist two more cans into sight.

'Well, I guess I'd better talk to Gracie,' I said as he knocked off the cap of the can. 'She could be my star witness.'

'She'll be in tomorrow. Watch her. She'll come a mite expensive.'

'Where does she live?'

He brooded over this, then shook his head.

'Can't give you her address. It's against the rules.'

I nursed the can of beer and stared past him at the photograph of Jack Dempsey.

'It's my bet Jeff Barratt brought in that rod.'

He was drinking from his can, and the beer went down the wrong way. I had to get up and thump him on the back or he would have choked. I thumped him a little harder than necessary. I thought I might as well get something for my money.

'Barratt?' he wheezed when he could speak. 'What are you talking about?'

'Barratt hates Perelli's guts. The guy who planted the rod hates Perelli's guts. Barratt lives opposite Perelli. Barratt's a first-prize rat. Not evidence in court, but evidence to me.'

He chewed this over and finally nodded his head.

'Could be.'

I drank some more beer.

'Don't waste your time on Gracie if you expect her to squeal on Barratt,' he said, lowering his voice. 'She's very, very strong for him.'

Now, perhaps, I was going to get value for my money.

'What gives?' I asked. 'Why should Barratt want to bother himself with a girl like that?'

The guy who owns this building tries to keep it respectable. Don't ask me why. He's funny that way. We've got instruc-tions that all women visitors are to check out before one o'clock or it has to be reported. Gracie works a night shift every other week. Barratt's women visitors don't check out at one o'clock and don't get reported.'

'So what does he do? Feed her five bucks a week? I'll pay for information.'

Maxi finished his beer, dusted the ash off his trousers and stood up.

'Well, I guess I gotta get back to work.'

'Sit down and give. I haven't had anything like ten dollars' worth of information.'

'At my rates you have. Make it another ten, and I'll tell you something that'll sit you on the edge of your can.'

'Five.'

'Ten.'

'Seven and a half.'

We closed at eight.

I gave him the money and he sat down again.

'She's a reefer-smoker, see? Barratt keeps her in weeds. You ain't got a chance.'

I thought this over, and decided perhaps I hadn't, but there was no harm trying.

'Give me her address.'

The extra money persuaded him to break the rules.

'274 Felman Street: it's one of those rooming-houses.'

I stood up.

'Keep this under your bowler, Maxie. If anyone asks you, you've never seen me.'

Maxie grunted, thumped himself on the chest and eyed me sourly. 'You don't have to worry. I'm fussy who I claim as a friend.'

I left him sitting there, breathing gently and staring absently at the empty beer cans.

The entrance to 274 Felman Street was sandwiched between a tobacconist's shop and a thirdrate cafe. There was a dirty brass plate on the door that read: R
ooms for Business Women.
No
Service. No Animals. No Men. A
card with several dirty thumb-prints on it was pinned above the brass plate and read:
No Vacancies.

The next-door café had four tables on the sidewalk. They were presided over by an elderly waiter whose long, lean face carried an expression of infinite sadness, and whose tail coat, in the hard sunlight, looked green with age. He watched me park the Buick before the entrance to the rooming-house and hopefully flicked at one of the tables with a soiled cloth, but the gesture didn't sell me anything.

I climbed the three stone steps to the glass-panelled doors of 274, pushed one open and entered a dark, smelly lobby full of silence and neglect. Along the left-hand wall was a row of mail boxes. I went over and read the names mounted in grimy brass frames above each box. There was a surprising number of Eves, Lulus, Dawns and Belles among the three dozen names, and I wondered if the brass plate on the door was entirely truthful. The fourth frame from the right read:
Miss Gracie Lehmann. Rm. 23. Flr. 2.

Stairs, carpeted with coconut matting, faced me. I puffed gently up thirty of them before I reached the first-floor landing and a long corridor that went away into a quiet dimness surveyed on either side by numerous doors before which stood bottles of milk and newspapers. As the time was ten minutes past noon, it seemed to me the business women were neglecting their business, if they had a business, which on the evidence didn't seem very probable.

As I began to mount the second flight, a lean, hard-faced man appeared at the head of the stairs. He wore a fawn flannel suit, a white felt hat and sun-glasses. He gave a nervous start when he saw me, hesitated as if in two minds whether to retreat or not, then came down the stairs with a studied air of nonchalance.

I waited for him.

He scratched his unshaven jaw with a thumb-nail as he passed me. I had an idea the eyes behind the sun-glasses were uneasy.

'No animals and positively no men,' I said softly as he walked across the landing to the lower flight of stairs.

He looked hastily over his shoulder, paused, said aggressively, 'Ug-huh?'

I shook my head.

'If you heard anything, it was probably the voice of your conscience.'

I went on up the stairs, leaving him to stare after me, pivoting slowly on his heels until we lost sight of each other.

The second floor was a replica of the lower floor, even to the bottles of milk and the newspapers. I walked along the corri- dor, treading softly, studying the numbers on the doors. Room 23 was half-way down and on the right-hand side. I paused before it, wondering what I was going to say to her. If what Maxie had told me was true, and it probably was, then the girl could clear Perelli if she wanted to. It now depended whether or not I could persuade her to throw Barratt to the wolves.

As I raised my knuckles to knock on the door I heard a quiet cough behind me. I looked furtively over my shoulder. There was something in the atmosphere of the place that would have made an archbishop feel furtive.

Behind and opposite me a door had opened. A tall, languorous redhead lolled against the doorway and surveyed me with a smile that was both inviting and suggestive. She wore a green silk wrap that outlined a nice, undulating hip, her legs were bare and her feet were in swan'sdown mules. She touched her red-gold hair with slender fingers that had never done a day's work in their lives, and her neat, fair eyebrows lifted in a signal that is as old as it is obvious.

'Hello, Big Man,' she said. 'Looking for someone?'

'Huh-uh,' I said. 'And I've found her. Don't let me keep you from your breakfast.'

The smile widened.

'Don't bother with her. She's not even up, but I am, and the safety catch's off too. I'm all ready to fire.'

I raised my hat and gave her a courteous bow.

'Madam, nothing would please me more than to pull the trigger, but I am committed elsewhere. Perhaps some other time? Regard me as food for your dreams, as I most certainly will regard you. Bear your disappointment as I am bearing mine, remembering that tomorrow is another day, and we too can have fun even if it is fun postponed.'

The smile went away and the green eyes hardened.

'Awe hell, just another nut,' she said, disgusted, and shut the door sharply in my face.

I blew out a little air, rapped on Gracie's door and waited. A half a minute later I rapped again; this time much louder. Still nothing happened. No one opened the door.

I looked to right and left, put my hand on the doorknob and turned it gently. The door moved away from me as I pushed.

I looked into a room that was big enough to hold a bed, two armchairs, a wardrobe and a dressing-table fitted with a swinging mirror. There was no one in the room. The bed hadn't been made, and the sheets hadn't been changed, by the look of them, for probably six months. They were grey and crumpled and as uninviting as only dirty sheets can be. There was a film of dust on the mirror and cigarette ash on the carpet. From where I stood I could see bits of fluff under the bed. Not a clean room: a room that gave me an itchy feeling down my spine as I looked at it.

At the head of the bed was another door that probably led to the bathroom. I stared at it, wondering if she was in there and knocked sharply on the panel of the open bedroom door to see if anything happened. Nothing did, so I stepped inside, and in case the redhead opposite became curious, I closed the door.

On one of the armchairs was a pile of clothes: a frock, stockings, a grey-pink girdle and a greyer pink brassiere.

There was a distinct smell of marijuana smoke in the room. Not new, but of many months' standing. It had seeped into the walls and the curtains and the bed and hung over the room like a muted memory of sin.

I moved silently past the bed to the closed door, rapped sharply and listened. I heard nothing. No one called out, and I was suddenly aware of a drop or two of sweat running down my face from inside my hat.

I turned the handle and pushed. The door opened heavily and sluggishly, but it opened. Something behind the door jumped against the panels and sent my heart jumping like a frog on a hot stove. I looked into the empty bathroom, saw the soiled pink bath, the mussed-up towels, the loofah, the cake of toilet soap and the half-squeezed tube of toothpaste.

I knew she was behind the door. She had to be.

I stepped into the bathroom, my nerves creeping up my spine. She was there all right: hanging from a hook in the door, in a blue, crumpled nightdress, her knees drawn up, her head on one side, the knot of her dressing-gown cord carefully under her right ear, the cord imbedded in the flesh of her neck.

I touched her hand.

It was cold and hard and lifeless.

I LOOKED up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight. A faint and far-off sound of movement told me that at least some of the occupants behind the many doors were beginning to greet the day; even if they went no farther than rolling over in bed.

I moved cautiously out of Room 23 and closed the door. Then I took off my hat and wiped my face with my handker-chief. I lit a cigarette and drew in a lungful of smoke. That helped a little, but not much. What I needed was a large whisky, neat, and in a hurry.

I stepped across the corridor to the redhead's door. On the left-hand panel with a card that read:
Miss Joy Dreadon. At home weekdays after five.

I tapped with my finger-nails on the door, making no more noise than a mouse makes when it is nibbling at die wainscot-ting, but it was loud enough.