Which led Carella to wonder how a man like John Smith, who had been existing on his social security checks, could afford to live in a joint like 457 Franklin Street. Carella stood on the sidewalk underneath the green canopy and looked into the entrance foyer. A doorman standing just inside the glass entrance doors stared out at him, opened one of the doors in anticipation, and came out onto the sidewalk.
“Help you, sir?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m trying to locate one of your tennants, a man named John Smith.”
“Yes, sir, he’s one of our tenants,” the doorman said. “But he ain’t around right now. In fact, I ain’t seen him for quite some time.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, since last month some time.”
“Mmm. How long has he been living here, would you know?”
“Just a few months, sir.”
“When did he move in, would you say?”
The doorman studied Carella narrowly. “Are you a friend of his?” he asked.
“No, I’m a cop.” He flashed the buzzer.
“Oh.”
“Yes. When did he move in, can you tell me that?”
“The end of February, I think it was.”
“And the last time you saw him was in March, that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Was he living alone?”
“I don’t know. He was here quite a lot.”
“But alone?”
“What?”
“Alone? Was he here alone?”
“Well, I just told you—”
“There were visitors?”
“Yes.”
“Living with Smith?”
“Maybe. It don’t matter to the building, you know. Long as a tenant don’t disturb other tenants, it’s his apartment, after all. So long as he don’t play the radio late or make noise or do anything against—” The doorman’s eyebrows went up quizzically. “Thelaw ?” he asked. “Is Mr. Smith in some kind of trouble?”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. I’d like to take a look at the apartment. Think you can let me in?”
“I’d have to check that with the building manager. And he won’t be here until later this afternoon.”
“Call him,” Carella said.
“Well, I—”
“It’s very important,” Carella said. He smiled. “Call him, won’t you?”
The doorman seemed dubious for a moment. Then he smiled back at Carella and said, “Sure, I’ll call him.”
Carella followed him into the building. The lobby had been redecorated recently, the furniture looking shining and new and unused. The doorman went into a small office, made his call and returned to Carella, still smiling. “Miracles will never cease,” he said. “The old bastard said okay. Only thing is we ain’t got a pass key or anything. I mean, he said if you can get in, okay, he don’t want any trouble with the police. But everybody buys their own locks, and we don’t have keys to none of the apartments.”
“Well, just take me up, and I’ll try some of my keys, okay?” Carella said.
“You carry skeleton keys, huh?” the doorman said, grinning knowingly.
Carella winked slyly. Together they took the elevator up to the sixth floor, and then walked down the corridor to apartment 6C.
“There it is,” the doorman said. “Nice apartment. Seven rooms. Very nice. It has this sunken living room.”
Carella reached into his pocket and took out a ring of keys.
“Skeleton keys, how about that!” the doorman said, still grinning. The doorman watched him as he began trying the keys in the lock. There were, in addition to his own house keys, perhaps half a dozen skeleton keys hanging from the ring. He tried them all. Not one of them turned the lock.
“No good?” the doorman asked.
“Not very,” Carella said, shaking his head. “How many floors to this building?”
“Nine.”
“Fire escapes?”
“Sure.”
“Think you can take me up to the roof?”
“You going to come down the fire escape?” the doorman asked.
“I’m going to try,” Carella said. “Maybe Smith left his window open.”
“Man, you guys sure work for your money, don’t you?” the doorman said admiringly.
Carella winked slyly and stepped into the elevator. He got off at the ninth floor and walked the flight to the roof, opening the fire door and stepping out onto the asphalt. He could see the city spread out around him as he crossed the roof, the sharp, vertical rectangles of the apartment buildings slit with open windows, the water tanks atop each roof nesting like shining dark birds, the blue sky beyond and the tracery of the bridges that connected Isola to the other parts of the city, the solid heavy lines of the old bridges, and the more delicate soaring lines of the newer bridges, and far below him the sound of street traffic and the hum of a city rushing with life, kids flying kites from neighboring rooftops, a man down the street swinging his long bamboo pole at his pigeons, the pigeons fluttering into the air in a sudden explosion of gray, beating wings, the April sun covering the asphalt of the roof with yellow warmth.
He walked to the edge of the roof and glanced down the nine stories to the interior courtyard below. Gripping the ladder tightly, he swung over the tiled parapet and began working his way down to the fire escape on the ninth floor. He did not glance into the windows. He didn’t want any women screaming for a cop. He kept working his way downward, not looking to the right or the left, going down the ladder hand over hand, and then marching across the fire escape, and onto the next ladder until he reached the sixth floor. He squatted outside apartment 6C and looked through the window. The apartment was empty. He tried the window.
It was locked.
“Dammit,” he said, and he moved along the fire escape to the second window. He was beginning to feel like a burglar, and he wished he had a small hand drill with which to bore into the wood and a hunk of wire to slip into the hole to lift the window catch. He was beginning to feel like an ill-equipped thief until he tried the second window and lo and begorrah, the goddam window was unlocked. He looked into the apartment again, and then slowly slid the window up and climbed over the sill.
The place was silent.
He dropped onto the thick rug and hastily scanned an apartment done in expensive good taste, sleek modern furniture set low against muted wall tones. His eyes touched each piece of furniture, lighted on the Danish desk in one corner of the living room. He went to it instantly and pulled down the drop-leaf front. He hoped to find some letters or an address book or something which could give him a further lead onto the people Smith had known, and especially the identity of the deaf man. But there was nothing of value. He closed the desk and oriented himself, figuring the kitchen to be that way, off the dining room, and the bedrooms to be that way, at the other end of the living room. He walked through the living room, his shoes whispering against the thick rug, and through the open arch and into the first of three bedrooms flanking a Spartan white corridor.
There was a faint trace of perfume in the bedroom.
The bed was neatly made, a black nightgown folded at its foot. Carella picked up the gown and looked for a label. It had come from one of the most expensive stores in the city. He sniffed it, smelled the same perfume that was in the air, and then dropped it onto the bed again, wondering if the gown belonged to Lotte Constantine, wondering too if she’d been lying when she said she didn’t know where John Smith had lived. He shrugged, snapped on a lamp resting on one of the night tables, and pulled open the top drawer of the table.