I glanced at my watch. It was after one a.m. now. I was probably already too late. If I’d got the correct address the first time I might have made it to the apartment before they did, but now there was no telling what I’d run into. Would she have left town, or would she be waiting for me with that cold-blooded killer? I gave up. There was no way to guess what she would do.
It was a little nearer the downtown area than the Randall Street address, a run-down district of grimy apartment buildings and small stores, shadowy and empty at this time of night. 1910 was an old three-story brick. She drove slowly past. Only two or three of the windows showed any light.
“Go on around the corner,” I said. She turned. We had to go on to the second block before we found a place to park. Apparently the tenants of the apartment buildings had to leave their cars out. She backed in and cut the lights.
“I shouldn’t be over fifteen minutes,” I said. “Be careful.”
I got out and turned the coat collar up around my face. If I met a prowl car on these deserted streets I was almost certain to be recognized. They knew I’d lost the hat, and the tan topcoat and red hair had probably been burned into their minds with some real blow-torch profanity by now. I reached the corner of Keller and turned into it. There were no cars in sight at all. I stepped quickly into the dingy vestibule of 1910. A small bulb overhead cast enough light for me to see the row of name-plates beside the buttons. Number 207 was Frances Celaya, all right. I reached for it, but hesitated, and drew back my hand. If they were up there waiting for me, they wouldn’t answer anyway, and all I’d accomplish would be to warn them. I took out the key and tried it. It worked. I opened the door and slipped inside, conscious of an empty, fluttery feeling in my stomach.
There was a dimly lighted hallway going straight back. The stairs were to the right. I slipped over to them and started up. They were carpeted with a threadbare runner, and my shoes made no sound on them. The upper hallway was the same as the one below, with two antique light fixtures in the ceiling and a single strip of carpeting down the center. It was intensely silent except for a man’s snoring somewhere beyond one of the doors. I looked at the numbers. 207 was straight back at the end of the hall.
I eased up to it and listened with my ear against the panel. There was no sound at all from inside. No light showed under the door. I slipped the key into the lock and turned it very gently until it came full over and stopped. With the other hand I turned the knob and pushed the door open about an inch. It was dark inside. I turned the key back, softly withdrew it, and dropped it in my pocket, conscious of my shallow breathing and the tightness of my nerves.
I pushed the door open a few more inches and felt inside along the wall with my hand. My fingers encountered a light switch, but I didn’t turn it on. I reached further. There was no one standing beside the door; not on this side, at least. I eased the door on open, slipped inside, and closed it very softly, turning the door knob and the knob of the lock with my fingers so they wouldn’t click.
For at least a full minute I stood perfectly still with my back against the door, listening. There was complete silence except for a slow dripping of water somewhere in another room. If there were anyone near me, he was breathing even more softly than I was. My eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. Opposite me, at the back of the room, was a small window. It was curtained, but the material was thin enough to show faint light behind it, apparently coming from somewhere in the alley below.
I could make out a sofa against the wall at my right, and a chair and bridge lamp. There were the slightly darker oblongs of open doorways on either side at the back of the room. I moved cautiously toward the one on the right, feeling my way and easing my feet down very gently on the carpet. I reached it and listened. There was still no sound of breathing. Then I saw the ghostly blur of something large and white, and realized it was a refrigerator and that this was the kitchen.
I turned and eased across the room to the other door. This should be the bedroom. There was no sound except that of the slowly dripping water, which was a little louder now and was somewhere off to my left. The bath must be at that end. At my right was another curtained window. I could just make out the pale oblong of the bed.
I took another step into the room, staring in the direction of the bed. I was certain now; there was no one on it. Sighing with relief, I flicked on my cigarette lighter. There was a small reading lamp on a stand beside the bed. I clicked it on and looked around. The place looked as if a band of monkeys had been playing in it.
Beyond the bed was a chest of drawers. The two top drawers were pulled about halfway out, and the rug before it was littered with pants, stockings, slips, and bras. Beyond the chest was a clothes closet. Two or three dresses still hung from the bar, but there were several on the floor, along with two empty suitcases and a cardboard box of books that had been dumped on the rug. To the left of the closet was the bathroom door. It was ajar, and I was conscious again of the sound of dripping water. To my left was a dresser. Its drawers were pulled open too, and handkerchiefs and costume jewelry and cosmetics were scattered across the top and on the floor in front of it. The place had been thoroughly ransacked by someone in a hurry. I turned quickly and went out in the living room. Nothing had been disturbed here. But then there was nothing to disturb—no desk or chest—only the dreary sofa and chairs of a cheap furnished apartment. I stepped over to the kitchen and clicked on the light. Everything appeared to be normal there.
I snapped the light off and started back to the bedroom, and then went rigid as the buzzer sounded. Somebody was at the door downstairs. It buzzed again, the noise rasping harshly across the silence. Then my nerves slowly uncoiled as I realized whoever it was couldn’t get in. He didn’t have a key, or he wouldn’t have rung for her to open the door. I waited. There was no further buzz. He’d apparently given up.
I stepped on into the bedroom, and looked at the mess again. Who had done it? Was somebody else on her trail? I wondered where she was; she wouldn’t have left town without packing at least some of her gear. I began pawing through the dresser drawers. She must have old letters around somewhere, Christmas cards, photos, address book, diary, or something to give me an idea of the people she knew.
The dresser held not a scrap of paper of any kind. I even felt under the bottoms of the drawers the way they did in movies. Letters, letters—now where the hell would she keep old letters? I straightened and started to turn, looking futilely around the room. My gaze stopped suddenly and backed up and I gasped, feeling my scalp tingle.
The door of the bathroom was partly open, and from this side of the room I could see in past the edge of it. The light was poor, but there was no doubt that what I saw was the sloping end of. an old-fashioned bathtub, and hanging inertly from the edge of it a slender and very shapely leg. I reached the door in two strides, pushed it open, and snapped on the light. When I looked down into the tub I had to fight to keep from being sick.
She was lying on her back with her eyes open, staring up at me through about six inches of water with the long black hair floating around her face. Her head was almost under the spigots, one of which was dripping intermittently and shattering the surface to cause little patterns of distortion to play across her features. She was naked. The long legs slanted up the sloping end of the tub and hung over the edge, causing the leverage that was keeping the rest of her submerged. There were ugly bruises around her throat. I swallowed again and forced myself to reach out and touch her. The leg swung. She probably hadn’t been dead half an hour when I got here.