“Ah,” the old man said. “You’re sure she’s our gal, Johnny?”
“She pulled up in a cab full of luggage about ten minutes ago, alone. Her bags have the name Connie Coy on them. And Giffin overheard the night man in the lobby call her Mrs. Dimmesdale. What do we do?”
Richard Queen said quietly, “Keep your eyes open and stay under cover. I’m on my way.”
They walked over; it was only a few blocks. The night was hot and humid, but Inspector Queen set a quick pace. There was no sign of George Weirhauser.
“I wonder why,” Jessie panted. Her girdle was killing her, but she would have died rather than ask him to slow down.
“Either his job is done or our staying in all day’s fooled him.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
The kerbs on both sides of 88th Street were packed with cars. How he knew Jessie could not imagine, but he stopped suddenly near one of the parked cars to light a cigarette, and a man’s voice from inside the car said, “Okay, Inspector.”
“Where’s Giffin staked out, Johnny?”
“Up there on the floor somewhere. If you don’t want the lobby man to see you, there’s a side service entrance. This side of the building. Delivery elevator is self-service.”
“You’re clairvoyant, Johnny.”
Kripps laughed. Jessie wondered what he looked like.
The Inspector strolled her slowly toward a shadowed area near the service entrance. The entrance had a weak caged bulb over it. He stopped her in the shadow. A car was cruising by, and a portly man in a Hawaiian shirt was trudging toward them from West End Avenue followed by a woman who was walking as if her feet hurt. The woman was jabbering a steady stream; the man kept wading on, deaf. He turned into the apartment house entrance and the woman went in after him.
“Now, Jessie.”
Jessie found herself stumbling down three steps into a sort of tunnel. Ahead was darkness. He took her hand and led the way, trailing his other hand along the inner wall.
“Here’s the door.”
They entered a cluttered, sour-smelling basement, dimly lit. There was a trash can in the elevator.
The elevator went up creaking and groaning. It seemed to Jessie it was making enough noise to be heard over on Broadway. But the old man merely watched the floors move by.
“Why are we sneaking in this way, Richard?”
“We’re not exactly in a position to operate openly. What the lobby man can’t see won’t hurt us.” He sounded grim.
The elevator stopped, swaying. He opened the door and they stepped into a dingy rear hall. He shut the elevator door noiselessly.
There were four apartment doors, lettered A, B, C and D. He went over to the fire stairway to look down into the well. Then he moved over to the stairs leading up, and peered. They were on the top floor. This flight undoubtedly led to the roof exit, but the whole upper part of the staircase was in darkness.
“Giffin?”
“Yeah, Inspector.” The ex-detective’s voice sounded a little surprised. “I thought with Kripps covering the street, I’d cover the back stairs.”
“Okay.”
He went to the door lettered C and put his forefinger on the bell button. C was one of the two rear apartments.
Jessie held her breath. Little Michael’s mother at last...
A latch chain rattled. The door opened a couple of inches.
“Who is it?”
She had a deep, slightly hoarse voice. Jessie caught a glint of gold hair, a slash of lipstick.
“Miss Connie Coy?”
“Yes?”
Richard Queen held his shield-case up for her inspection. “May we come in?”
“Police?”
Just the merest tremble of fear, Jessie thought, in that sugared voice. One large hazel eye, heavily mascaraed, shot a glance in Jessie’s direction.
“What do you want with me?” She made no move to open the door.
“Let us in, please, Miss Coy,” he said quietly. “I don’t think you want the neighbors in on this.”
She undid the latch chain then, stepping back with the door fast.
Connie Coy was clutching a green terry cloth housecoat about her, glancing from Richard Queen to Jessie and back again. Jessie saw now that her gold hair had greenish roots and that the makeup did not entirely conceal tired, biting lines. She was wearing dark green sandals. Her toenails were painted gold.
The old man shut the door and hooked the chain back.
“Sorry to barge in on you this way, Miss Coy, but it couldn’t be helped. I’m Inspector Queen, this is Miss Sherwood. Where can we talk?”
“But what’s this all about?” She was openly frightened now.
“Is that your living room in there?”
He went swiftly through the neat little kitchen into a big studio room.
“Don’t be afraid, Miss Coy,” Jessie said in her soft voice.
The girl gave her a puzzled look. Then she laughed and poked at her hair. “I’ve never had a visit from the police before,” she said. “Are you a policewoman?”
“I’m a trained nurse.”
She seemed rooted to the floor. But then she said, “Won’t you come in?” and stepped aside.
They went into the studio room. Richard Queen was in the bedroom, looking into the bathroom. Open suitcases were strewn about the bed and the floor. Evening gowns lay everywhere.
“What are you looking for, Inspector?” the girl asked nervously.
“Just making sure we’re alone.” He came back, frowning.
It was a gay room in a theatrical way. The furniture was nondescript modern, but the upholstery was brightly colored and there was a striking batik throw over the back of the sofa. An ivory-and-gilt Steinway stood to one side of a big studio window. She had thrown the window wide open to the humid night, and through it Jessie could see the starlit roofline of an apartment building on the other side of a narrow inner court, no more than twenty feet away. The window hangings were of dramatic red velvet. The walls were covered with inscribed theatrical photographs, mostly of jazz musicians, but there were several Degas reproductions of ballet dancers, an airy Dufy, and two small Japanese prints of subtle coloring that looked old. From an Egyptian copper vase on the mantelpiece over the false fireplace drooped some dead red roses. Half of one wall held floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and recordings. There was a hi-fi player, a television set, a tiny bar.
“I’d offer you folks a drink,” Connie Coy said with a strained smile, “but I’m out of everything and I only just got back tonight from out of town. Please sit down.”
Jessie seated herself on the sofa near an iron-and-glass end table. A book lay open on the table. She wondered what it was.
The girl sat down in a wing chair, stiffly.
“Well?” she said. “I’m ready.”
Inspector Queen went over to the fireplace, fingered a dry rose petal that lay on the brass knob of the andiron, suddenly whirled.
“Miss Coy, when did you see your baby last?”
The brutality of his question struck Jessie like a blow. She gave him an angry glance, but he was looking at the blonde girl. Jessie looked at her, too.
She was pale, but under control. She’s been expecting it, Jessie thought. She took it better than I did.
“Baby? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Miss Coy.” His voice was perfectly flat. “Seven or eight months ago you leased this apartment under the name of Mrs. Arthur Dimmesdale. There is no Arthur Dimmesdale. Some time between then and May of this year you were approached by a lawyer named Finner. You were pregnant, and he offered to see you through in safety to yourself providing you turned the baby over to him. He was in the adoption business, he told you, and he would see to it that your child was placed in a very good home with foster-parents who couldn’t have children of their own and wanted to adopt one. All expenses would be paid; you would receive a large sum of money; Finner would take care of all the ‘legal’ details. You were desperate, and you agreed. Finner sent you to a reputable gynecologist who knew you only as ‘Mrs. Willis P. Exeter,’ a name Finner provided, and when your time came you entered the hospital Finner designated under that name. The date was May 26th. On May 27th you gave birth to a male child. He weighed six pounds thirteen ounces, was nineteen centimeters long, had blue eyes and blond hair. On June 3rd you and your baby were discharged from the hospital and you turned him over to Finner. He paid you the promised fee and took the baby away. Are you ready to answer my questions now?”