“Hotel. It’s at the corner of West End Avenue and Sixty-second Street.”
I made a note of it. “What hotel did you stay in last night?” I asked.
“The Paragon, on West Fifty-fourth.”
“I know where it is. It’s just down the street from the station house. What time did you leave there?”
“Well, their check-out time’s a little earlier than it is most places. At one o’clock. I — let’s see — I guess I checked out about noon.”
“And then what did you do?”
“I took a walk.”
“Where?”
“Oh, just around. I walked over to Fifth Avenue, and up Fifth to Central Park. I went to the zoo, and watched people rowing boats on the lake a while, and then I sat down on a bench and tried to get a little sun.”
“You walk home from Central Park?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You see anyone you knew?”
“On my walk? No.” Her eyes suddenly grew round. “You don’t think I...?”
“I have to ask questions,” I said. “Then I have to check them out.” I took a final drag on my cigarette and flipped it away. For some reason I kept thinking about those filthy mattresses back inside. A cop sometimes turns up a lot of muck in the course of an investigation, and sometimes the stench of the muck stays with you far longer than the memory of the investigation. I had a feeling I’d be recalling those sweat-soured mattresses for a lot of years to come.
Janice Pedrick shifted her position slightly, and as she did so I noticed the play of muscles through the hard, dancer’s body. She was a large girl, and a strong one. She would be physically capable of handling a small man the size of the corpse. She would have had no trouble at all stringing him up. On the other hand, the dead man had apparently been a prizefighter, supposedly capable of taking care of himself. And the girl showed no signs of having been in anything like a fight. There were no bruises or scratches, and none of her fingernails had been broken. If she’d been a party to his murder, I reasoned, she had either caught him while he was drunk or drugged — which would come out at the autopsy — or she had had help.
But there was the factor of her alibi — if it was one. I’d heard at least a hundred different suspects tell me the same tale. That walk through Central Park, with stop-offs at the zoo and lake and park bench, had worn pretty thin over the years.
Ben Muller came through the door, carrying a pink petticoat. “Take a look at this, Pete,” he said.
The petticoat was of nylon, with about six inches of lace at the bottom. It seemed to be new, but there were two large rents in the lace, and the nylon itself bore at least a dozen creases that extended almost the entire length of the garment. When I held it loosely across my forearm, the petticoat bunched itself together from top to bottom.
I glanced at Janice Pedrick. “This yours?”
She nodded.
“You wad it up like this?”
“No. It — it was hanging over the back of a chair when I left the apartment.”
“Looks like we might have something,” Ben said.
The girl frowned at the petticoat, and then at Ben. “What do you mean?”
“It could have been used as a garrote,” Ben told her. “If someone grabbed it by each end, and pulled it taut, it would stretch out into a kind of rope. If you looped it around someone’s neck, and tightened it up, and kept it there long to cause asphyxia, it would leave lengthwise pleats in the material — just like the ones it has in it now.”
I handed the petticoat back to Ben. “Hang on to this,” I said. “Maybe we can book it as evidence, if things fall that way. How’s the doc making out?”
“He said he couldn’t do anything more until he got the guy to Bellevue. I told him he could take the body. Okay?”
“Sure. You get a receipt for it?”
“Yeah.” He took out a handkerchief and sponged at the back of his neck. “Hot in there, and the stink would make a goat sick.”
I turned back to Janice Pedrick. “This friend of yours — this Leda Willard — do you think she’d be home now?”
She looked at her watch. “I don’t think so. She goes to work at five.”
“Where?”
“She works in a jewelry shop, down in the Village. It’s not a regular store. The man she works for makes all his own things. It’s just a tiny little place. He’s been teaching Leda to make jewelry. She always liked doing things like that.”
“How come she goes to work at five?”
“The store stays open until midnight. Leda just has a part-time job, and the only reason she works at all is because she wants to learn enough to start her own shop someday.”
“What’s the name of this guy she works for?”
She gave me the name — Carl Dannion — and an address on Christopher Street.
I put the notebook back in my pocket and gestured for Janice Pedrick to step back inside.
“That reminds me,” she said. “I’ll have to be leaving for work myself pretty soon.”
“Not tonight,” I told her.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to spend a little time at the station house.”
I had expected something of an explosion. She surprised me. All she did was glare at me a little, and then she shrugged and walked past Ben and me and into the apartment.
“You’d better call for a car, Ben,” I said. “Turn her over to a matron, and let her think about things a while. Maybe a couple of hours down there will make her feel more talkative.”
“You don’t want me to question her?”
“No. Just let her stew a bit.”
“And then what?”
“Get a set of the dead guy’s prints and take them down to BCI. See if they can give us a make on him. While they’re checking, look up the tailor that made his slacks and the guy who made his shoes. Either one of them could probably give you a fast make — provided you can get hold of them.”
We stepped into the apartment. Janice Pedrick was combing her hair before a yellowed mirror over the sink.
“Where’ll you be, in case I want to contact you?” Ben asked.
“I’m going down to the Village.”
“Hell, I figured that much. I mean afterwards.”
“I’ll check in at the station house as soon as I can. You do the same.”
“All right.”
“How do you feel.”
“Sleepy.”
“Yeah. Same here.” I walked to the front door, then turned. “Just lock the place up when the tech boys finish,” I said. “I don’t think we need to leave a stakeout.”
He nodded and crossed over toward Janice Pedrick.
5.
It was a little cooler in the Village, and much quieter. I went down four shallow steps and turned into the Dannion Custom Jewelry Shop. Janice Pedrick had been right about its being tiny. There was room for a very small showcase, a workbench, and not much else. The man who came up to the counter was in his late fifties, a very thin, scholarly looking man with pince-nez and a spade beard.
“Is Mrs. Willard here?” I asked.
“No. I’m sorry, but she hasn’t come in yet. May I help you?” He had just a trace of accent, but I couldn’t identify it.
I took out my wallet and showed him my badge. I couldn’t have got much more reaction if I’d showed him a live rattlesnake. His face blanched and his forehead suddenly began to glisten with sweat.
“Are you with the FBI?” he asked.
“You didn’t take a very good look at my badge,” I said. “No. I’m a city detective.”
He seemed to relax a bit, but not too much. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you know where Mrs. Willard is?”
He shook his head.