Slaton got up and walked south to the first intersection. There, he turned away from the park and quickly found the alley that ran behind the Crooms Hill Road shops. He spotted the back of the smoke shop and studied it for a moment. Satisfied, he went back to the side street and walked west, away from the park. Two blocks later he found a pay telephone and rang up E. Merrill at Burnston and Hammel Associates. The E., as it turned out, stood for Elizabeth.
“With what might I help you, sir?” queried a stridently proper, if rather high-pitched voice.
“Yes,” Slaton replied, inserting a pointedly continental hue to his speech, “I’d like to enquire about a property on Crooms Hill Road in Greenwich.”
“Which would that be?” E. Merrill quizzed, as though she held agency on the entire block.
“It’s a smoke shop, across from the park.”
“Oh, yes. An excellent location and a good customer base. I think it does something on the order of two hundred thousand a year, gross.”
“To tell you the truth, I probably wouldn’t keep it the same. That is, I wouldn’t be interested in the inventory. Do you think the owner might consider that kind of arrangement?”
“Well, the owner is retiring. But I’m sure something can be done,” E. Merrill said accommodatingly. Slaton had a vision of the woman sitting in a cubicle halfway across town with a forged smile on her face.
“Tell me about the upstairs units. Are they sublet?”
“No. The owner lives in one, and of course he’d move out with the sale. The other unit was sublet, but it’s vacant at the moment.” Slaton gave no immediate reply and E. Merrill clearly felt the need to expand her answer. “The lease values for flats in that part of town are quite attractive.”
“I’m sure,” Slaton said, his tone strictly at odds.
“Perhaps I can arrange a viewing.”
“Well,” he hedged, “there is another property I’m very interested in … but all right. No harm in having a look.”
“Are you available this afternoon, Mr….”
“Ahh, terribly sorry. Nils Linstrom is the name. Yes, shall we say four thirty?”
“That would be fine,” Elizabeth Merrill replied.
Slaton spotted the woman who had to be E. Merrill outside the Green-wich Smoke Shop at precisely four twenty-five. She was in her fifties, he guessed, professionally dressed, and wearing a bit more make-up than she should have. He introduced himself as Nils Linstrom and the two exchanged pleasantries, then went inside to meet the owner. His name was Shrivaras Dhalal, an Indian man who was undoubtedly nearing retirement age. Dhalal didn’t say much and seemed stand-offish. Slaton suspected he’d been briefed by E. Merrill that this prospective buyer wasn’t interested in the store’s inventory, and thus any offer would certainly reflect the point. Sensing the social loggerheads, E. Merrill gave Slaton a quick tour of the shop and then led upstairs.
“These units are really quite nice. They’ve been updated in the last few years. Were you planning on taking one yourself?”
“Oh, no. I live on the continent most of the year. This would serve strictly as an investment.”
“If it’s an investment you want, this might well be the place. When it first came on the market I took a good look at it myself.”
“And when was that?” Slaton asked.
The property agent hesitated, having been cornered on a matter of record. “Well, I suppose it’s been about a year now.” Then E. Merrill added abruptly in a low tone, “Mr. Dhalal wasn’t very motivated at first, but I think he’s getting serious.”
They took a quick tour of Shrivaras Dhalal’s flat. Slaton roamed enough to get a good look out the window, then suggested they go to the third floor. The upstairs flat was a mirror of the one below — a main living room overlooked Crooms Hill Road and the park, the kitchen fell in the center, and a single bedroom and bath to the rear. The only difference here was a vaulted ceiling.
Slaton wandered around, forcing himself to spend time in the kitchen and bathroom before ending up by the front window. Someone had opened the curtains for the showing. He looked out and saw a clear line of sight to center stage, just to the left of the tree he’d been worried about. Slaton backed into the room and looked at the ceiling. It angled up in an inverted V, except at the very apex. There, near the front wall, was a flat section five feet across and ten feet long. He realized that the vent he’d seen from the street had to be there.
“What’s up there?” he asked.
“Oh, back when these places were built, the local architects tended to add in things like that. I suppose you could call it something of an attic. I’m sure it’s very handy.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Slaton saw that the attic ended halfway into the room by way of a small triangular wall hung from the roof, and in the center of that was an access door. Slaton strolled back to the front window and looked out, his hand to his chin as if making calculations. Which in fact he was.
“You know it’s really not all that bad. Would Mr. Dhalal permit me to see his books?”
“I imagine he would, but I didn’t think you were interested in his line of sales.”
“Business is business, you know. I’d like to go back a few years, of course.”
“Oh!” E. Merrill grew visibly excited and lost some of her veneer. “Yes. Ah, let me go see.”
She hurried out and Slaton heard her clatter down the stairs. He quickly went to the hallway and grabbed a short wooden ladder he’d spotted on the way up. Placing it under the attic door, he climbed up. The door to the compartment was perhaps two feet wide and slightly less in height. It took a sharp tug before it swung open, and Slaton turned his head as a cloud of dust belched out. Immediately inside the enclosure was a dusty old shoe box which he shoved to one side. With that out of the way, he could see all the way to the vent at the far end. There were rafters above on an angle to support the roof, and at the bottom were crossbeams every eighteen inches. There was also an array of dead bugs, dust, and not much in the way of light.
Slaton hadn’t known this morning exactly what he was looking for, but now he suspected he might have found it. The plan grew quickly, details fell into place. He swung the door open and closed a few times. It was stiff, yet seemed sturdy enough. Of course, it would be a tight fit. Still …
Voices from below forced his thoughts to accelerate. He knew the end point, and from that critical reference he worked backward, devising a way to put everything in place. He got down off the ladder and hurried to the bedroom where he unlocked the rear window. He then went back and climbed to the attic door. Inside the attic, nails protruded from the ceiling. He hooked the sleeve of his jacket on one and pulled, ripping a small tear in the cuff. Next, he took off his wristwatch and placed it in his pocket. He waited.
Elizabeth Merrill and Shrivaras Dhalal were climbing the stairs, he with a half dozen ledgers under one arm. The property agent was running commission numbers in her head when she heard a loud thump and a shout from above. She quickened her pace, Dhalal right behind. Arriving at the top floor, she found their potential buyer sprawled on the floor next to the ladder.
“Damn!” he cursed, in obvious pain.
“Mr. Linstrom, what happened?” she cried.
“You are all right?” Dhalal chimed in as they both went to help.
Elizabeth Merrill watched Linstrom grimace as he struggled to a sitting position. He grabbed a shoulder and moved it in a rolling motion. “Ah, stupid of me! I was having a look up there,” he said, pointing to the attic. “My jacket caught on something and I lost my balance.”