“Felicity was pretty healthy.” Singe looked at him curiously. “Find what you were looking for?”
He nodded. “She lived here. And she seemed to like it. That’s all I was after really.”
“Shall we try the bedroom?”
“Sure.”
The bedroom was not quite as large as the living room because its size had been reduced by the addition of a large closet. There were pretty yellow curtains on the windows and a cheerful white-and-brown rug on the floor. The bed was of the three-quarter kind, quite large enough for one and even for two, providing number two didn’t plan to stay the night.
The bedroom also contained an old-fashioned chaise longue, which gave it the air of a boudoir. A card table, bridge lamp, portable electric typewriter, and director’s chair gave it the air of Felicity Dill.
Dill crossed to the closet and slid one of its doors back. The closet was filled with women’s clothing, all neatly hung on hangers with winter clothes in plastic bags and summer clothes ready to hand. Dill shoved the hung clothing to one side to see if there was anything else worth noting and discovered the man at the back of the closet. The man had a long narrow face that wore a foolish smile. His eyes were a yellowish brown and looked trapped. Dill thought they also looked clever.
“Who the hell are you, friend?” Dill said.
“Lemme explain,” the man said.
Dill stepped back quickly, looked around for something hard, spotted the windowsill, and smashed the beer bottle against it. It left him with a weapon formed by the bottle’s neck and three or four inches of sharp jagged green glass.
“Explain out here,” Dill said.
The man came out of the closet carrying a small toolchest and still wearing his fool’s smile.
“I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do,” Dill said. “I want you to put that chest down very carefully, then reach into a pocket just as carefully — I don’t care which one — and come out with some ID. If you don’t, I’m going to cut your face.”
“Take it easy,” the man said, still smiling his fixed smile. He put the toolchest down as instructed, reached into a hip pocket, and brought out a worn black billfold. He offered it to Dill.
“Give it to her,” Dill said.
The man offered the billfold to Anna Maude Singe. She approached him warily, almost snatched the billfold from his hand, and hurriedly stepped back. She opened it and found a driver’s license.
“He’s Harold Snow,” Singe said. “I remember that name.”
“So do I,” Dill said. “You’re Cindy’s roomie, aren’t you?”
“You know Cindy?” the man said, his tone puzzled, the fool’s smile still trying to please.
“We met,” Dill said.
“Harold’s the tenant,” Singe said. “At the duplex. His name was on the lease.”
“I know,” Dill said.
Harold Snow’s foolish smile finally went away. The yellowish-brown eyes stopped looking trapped and began looking wily instead.
“You guys aren’t the cops then,” he said in a relieved tone.
“I’m worse than that, Harold,” Dill said. “I’m the brother.”
Chapter 22
Harold Snow obeyed Dill’s instructions exactly. He squatted down, his hands behind him, groped for the handle of the toolchest, found it, and rose, holding the toolchest just below the seat of his chino pants.
“Now we’re going into the living room, Harold, where it’s cooler,” Dill said. “But when I say stop, I want you to stop or I’ll slice off an ear. Got that?”
“I got it,” Snow said.
“Let’s go.”
Snow went first into the hall followed by Dill. Anna Maude Singe came last. When they reached the door to the kitchen, Dill said, “Stop, Harold.”
Snow stopped. “You know where the knives are?” Dill said to Singe.
“What kind d’you want?”
“Something that’ll impress Harold.”
“Right.”
“You don’t need any knife,” Snow said.
“Shut up, Harold,” Dill said.
Dill could hear Singe open and close a drawer in the kitchen. A moment later she was saying, “What about this one?”
Dill turned to look. She was holding up a wicked-looking breadknife. “Fine,” Dill said, took the knife and handed her the broken neck of the beer bottle.
“Okay, Harold, into the living room.”
Still carrying the toolchest behind him, Snow moved into the living room followed by Dill and Singe. She tossed the neck of the beer bottle into a wastebasket.
“You can put the chest down, Harold,” Dill said.
It was awkward going down with the chest behind him, but Snow managed it and then stood up again. “Now what?” he said.
“Sit down over there.”
“Over here?” Snow said, moving to the large easy chair with the ottoman and the brass floor lamp.
“That’s the one.”
Snow sat down in the chair. “Is your toolchest unlocked, Harold?” Dill asked.
“It’s unlocked.”
“Let’s open it and see what’s inside.” Snow started to rise. “Not you, Harold,” Dill said, motioning him back down with the breadknife.
Anna Maude Singe knelt by the toolbox and opened it. She lifted up a tray of assorted tools and inspected the bottom of the chest. “He’s either the telephone man or the man who comes to fix the hi-fi,” she said. “Except I don’t think either one would have this in his toolchest.”
Dill looked quickly to his left and then back at Harold Snow. “Is it loaded?” he asked Singe.
“It’s loaded.”
“Let’s have it.” Singe rose, moved over to Dill, and handed him the short-barreled five-shot.38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. He gave her the breadknife. Dill aimed the pistol at Snow and smiled. The smile made Snow swallow nervously.
“We’re going to tell the cops, Harold, that we surprised you in a burglary, you pulled this on us, I took it away from you, and then shot you in the knee. The right knee, I think.” Dill moved the gun so that it was pointed at Snow’s right knee.
“You wouldn’t do that,” Snow said.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Anna Maude Singe said.
“Christ, lady, people don’t just go around shooting people.”
“He’s the brother, Harold — remember? The death of his sister’s made him sort of crazy.”
“Harold,” Dill said.
Snow looked at him. “What?”
“I’m going to ask you what you’re doing here. If you lie to me, I promise I’ll shoot you — in the knee. Understand?”
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” Snow said, his tone as defiant as he could manage.
Dill squeezed the trigger of the pistol. The gun fired. The.38-caliber slug tore into the ottoman in front of Snow’s knees. Snow yelped and shrank back in the chair. Dill wondered if anyone had heard the shot. Probably not, he decided, not back here in the alley at the rear of a two-hundred-foot lot. He also decided he didn’t really care.
“Sorry, Harold,” Dill said and carefully aimed the pistol, with both hands this time, at Snow’s right knee.
“The tape!” Snow shouted. “That’s all. Just the tape.”
Dill lowered the pistol. “What tape, Harold?” he said pleasantly.
“The last one,” Snow said.
“The last one. And where is this last tape?”
Snow pointed toward the ceiling. “In the crawl space. It’s sort of an attic. You get to it by going up through the trap in the closet ceiling in the bedroom.”
“How did you know the tape is up there, Harold?”
“I put the recorder in.”
“The tape recorder?”
Snow nodded. “It’s voice-activated and I ran it off of house power so I wouldn’t have to fool with batteries.”
“When did you do all this, Harold?” Anna Maude Singe asked.