Heavy feet came along the corridor outside the apartment door and stopped. There was a mutter of voices, then somebody knocked, a quick, hard, impatient rapping. I looked at the door and wondered how long it would fe before they tried it, and if the spring lock would be set so they could walk in, and if it wasn’t set how long it would take to get the manager up with a passkey if he wasn’t there already. I was still wondering when a hand tried the door. It was locked.
That was very funny. I almost laughed out loud.
I stepped over to another door and glanced into a bathroom. There were two wash rugs on the floor, a bath mat folded neatly over the edge of the tub, a pebbled glass window above it. I eased the bathroom door shut quietly and stood on the edge of the bathtub and pushed up the lower sash of the bathroom window. I put my head out and looked down about six floors to the darkness of a side street lined with trees. To do this I had to look out through a slot formed by two short blank walls, hardly more than an air shaft The windows were in pairs, all in the same end wall opposite the open end of the slot. I leaned farther out and decided I could make the next window if I tried. I wondered if it was unlocked, and if it would do me any good, and if I’d have time before they could get the door open.
Behind me, beyond the closed bathroom door, the pounding was a little louder and harder and a voice was growling out: «Open it up or we’ll bust it in.»
That didn’t mean anything. That was just routine cop stuff. They wouldn’t break it down because they could get a key, and kicking that kind of door in without a fire axe is a lot of work and tough on the feet.
I shut the lower half of the window and pulled down the upper half and took a towel off the rack. Then I opened the bathroom door again and my eyes were looking straight at the face in the photo frame on the mantel. I had to read the inscription on that photo before I left. I went over and scanned it while the pounding on the door went on angrily. The inscription said — With all my love — Leland.
That made a sap out of Dr. Austrian, without anything else. I grabbed the photo and went back into the bathroom and shut the door again. Then I shoved the photo under the dirty towels and linen in the cupboard under the bathroom closet. It would take them a little while to find it, if they were good cops. If we were in Bay City, they probably wouldn’t find it at all. I didn’t know of any reason why we should be in Bay City, except that Helen Matson would very likely live there and the air outside the bathroom window seemed to be beach air.
I squeezed out through the upper half of the window with the towel in my hand and swung my body across to the next window, holding on to the sash of the one I had left. I could reach just far enough to push the next window up, if it was unlocked. It wasn’t unlocked. I swung my foot and kicked the glass in just over the catch. It made a noise that ought to have been heard a mile. The distant pounding went on monotonously.
I wrapped the towel around my left hand and stretched my arms for all they had in them and shoved my hand in through the broken place and turned the window catch. Then I swung over to the other sill and reached back to push up the window I had come out of. They could have the fingerprints. I didn’t expect to be able to prove I hadn’t been in Helen Matson’s apartment. All I wanted was a chance to prove how I had got there.
I looked down at the street. A man was getting into a car. He didn’t even look up at me. No light had gone on in the apartment I was breaking into. I got the window down and climbed in. There was a lot of broken glass in the bathtub. I got down to the floor and switched the light on and picked the glass out of the bathtub and wrapped it in my towel and hid it. I used somebody else’s towel to wipe off the sill and the edge of the bathtub where I’d stood. Then I took my gun out and opened the bathroom door.
This was a larger apartment. The room I was looking at had twin beds with pink dust covers. They were made up nicely and they were empty. Beyond the bedroom there was a living room. All the windows were shut and the place had a close, dusty smell. I lit a floor lamp, then I ran a finger along the arm of a chain and looked at dust On-it. There was an armchair radio, a book rack built like a hod, abig bookcase full of novels with the jackets still on them, a dank wood highboy with a siphon and a decanter of liquor on it, and four striped glasses upside down. I sniffed the liquor, which was Scotch, and used a little of it. It made my head feel worse but it made me feel better.
I left the light on and went back to the bedroom and poked into bureau and closets. There were male clothes in one closet, tailor-made, and the name written on the label by the tailor was George Talbot. George’s clothes looked a little small for me. I tried the bureau and found a pair of pajamas I thought would do. The closet gave me a bathrobe and slippers. I stripped to the skin.
When I came out of the shower I smelled only faintly of gin. There was no noise or pounding going on anywhere now, so I knew they were in Helen Matson’s apartment with their little pieces of chalk and string. I put Mr. Talbot’s pajamas and slippers and bathrobe on, used some of Mr. Talbot’s tonic on my hair and his brush and comb to tidy up. I hoped Mr. and Mrs. Talbot were having a good time wherever they were and that they would not have to hurry home.
I went back to the living room, used some more Talbot Scotch and lit one of his cigarettes. Then I unlocked the entrance door. A man coughed close by in the hall. I opened the door and leaned against the jamb and looked out. A uniformed man was leaning against the opposite wall — a smallish, blond, sharpeyed man. His blue trousers were edged like a knife and he looked neat, clean, competent and nosy.
I yawned and said: «What goes on, officer?»
He stared at me with sharp reddish-brown eyes flecked with gold, a colon you seldom see with blond hair. «A little trouble next door to you. Hear anything?» His voice was mildly sarcastic.
«The carrot-top?» I said. «Haw, haw. Just the usual biggame hunt. Drink?»
The cop went on with his careful stare. Then he called down the hallway: «Hey, Al!»
A man stepped out of an open door. He was about six feet, weighed around two hundred, and he had coarse black hair and deep-set expressionless eyes. It was Al De Spain whom I had met that evening at Bay City headquarters.
He came down the hall without haste. The uniformed cop said: «Here’s the guy lives next door.»
De Spain came close to me and looked into my eyes. His own held no more expression than pieces of black slate. He spoke almost softly.
«Name?»
«George Talbot,» I said. I didn’t quite squeak.
«Hear any noises? I mean, before we got here?»
«Oh, a brawl, I guess. Around midnight. That’s nothing new in there.» I jerked a thumb towards the dead girl’s apartment.
«That so? Acquainted with the dame?»
«No. Doubt if I’d want to know her.»
«You won’t have to,» De Spain said. «She’s croaked.»
He put a big, hard hand against my chest and pushed me back very gently through the door into the apartment. He kept his hand against my chest and his eyes flicked down sharply to the side pockets of the bathrobe, then back to my face again. When he had me eight feet from the door he said over his shoulder: «Come in and shut the door, Shorty.»
Shorty came and shut the door, small, sharp eyes gleaming. «Quite a gag,» De Spain said, very casually. «Put a gun on him, Shorty.»
Shorty flicked his black belt holster open and had a police gun in his hand like lightning. He licked his lips. «Oh boy,» he said softly. «Oh boy.» He snapped his handcuff holder open and half drew the cuffs out. «How’d you know, Al?»
«Know what?» De Spain kept his eyes on my eyes. He spoke to me gently. «What was you goin’ to do — go down and buy a paper?»