“Naturally.”
“Good. At the top of the stairs, there are two doors leading to the right of the hall. Take the second one. That was our … a bedroom. Put the package in the top bureau drawer next to the bed. When you’ve finished, call me at the number in the envelope.” I opened the envelope, read the address: 186 Bellevue Terrace, pocketed the key, and put the paper with the telephone number away next to it.
“Is that it?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t going to add a few details like the fact that a wedding reception would be going on at the time or that the place was booby-trapped. “Whose house is this anyway?” I asked.
“The owner is Tom Twining. He works for Griffiths and Dunlop, the real estate firm. You know them?”
“I guess I’ve seen their ads in the paper.”
“What time do you think you’ll be able to phone me?”
“Oh, say around ten-thirty. I should be in and out by then. That should be late enough.”
“Good. I’ve paid you in advance, Mr. Cooperman, so there’s no need for us to meet again. Nothing personal, of course.”
“That’s understood.” I raised my palms in mock protest. She nodded, smiled a wispy smile and turned toward the door.
“There’s one thing more,” I said. She turned quickly and shot me a startled look, as though I was about to ask for a couple of hundred dollars more. “You haven’t given me the package.” I smiled. She looked into her bag, found the parcel again, and was almost laughing as she passed it to me. In another second, she has left the room. I sat there wondering what kind of cock-and-bull story I’d fall for next, but at least this one left a pleasant fragrance behind. At least it didn’t involve stealing kids from one parent for the other in a messy post-divorce case, or turning in a perfectly decent fellow just because you happened to be working for his estranged wife. At least this looked clean.
I got out of my chair, and left the office. Across the street in Woolworth’s I looked for Bellevue Terrace on a tourist map of the city. It was across the valley, on the same side of the creek as Martha Tracy, but located on the ravine like Chester’s place. I worked my way along the counters, past the pastel bins of lingerie, bumping into old ladies with shopping bags that should have been checked at the door and kids discovering what was new in cap guns and holsters. In passing a pay phone, I couldn’t resist taking a peek. I was right: no Tom Twining listed on Bellevue Terrace. This caper was getting to be as irresistible as Phoebe Campbell herself. I caught the eye of a salesgirl, and made the purchase of a serviceable flashlight. The batteries were extra, but what the hell.
FOURTEEN
At ten o’clock I found myself driving over the high-level bridge which connects the two halves of the city. Below me, in the dark, I knew the mingled waters of the canal and creek began their joint run to the lake about two miles away. Below me too the ghosts of the old sailing fleet haunted the valley, and the echoes of a thousand hammers and adzes at the vanished drydock were enough to distract a man going about a foolish mission because of the pretty place it came from. I turned left at the first street over the bridge, and went down the bumpy, short steep hill to Bellevue Terrace. I checked the numbers. On one side ran a group of frame and stucco houses, not unlike Martha Tracy’s house, all dating from the 1920s. On the other side of the street, all of the houses looked as though they’d been built within a month of one another just after the Second World War. The houses on the right and left looked at one another across a gap of at least thirty thousand dollars. The last house number I read was still too high, and by then I could see that the street continued on higher ground, the two parts joined by a hedge-bordered cinder path. To get to the upper section of the street, it was necessary to drive around the wedge-shaped beginning of a gully, which led down a dark and forested incline to the creek.
On this part of the street, at least the houses were all about the same value, with the ones backing on the ravine looking a little more desirable than the ones across the road. Still, I wouldn’t say no if you offered me any of them. I picked out my house, and kept on going. The street ended in a right-angled turn to my right, with the new street slipping into working-class houses as soon as the corner had been surely rounded. Squatting inside the angle itself, I could see a huge, brooding mansion of stucco and wood, with dark protruding eaves and unfriendly-looking screened-in porches. The house I was looking for stood next door to this. It was much smaller than the houses around it, without looking shabby, or suggesting that the owner sipped his tea from his saucer. It was simply dwarfed by the mansion, from which it was separated by a high privet hedge.
I parked my car around the corner in front of a brick veneer bungalow with three small square windows under the eaves. I felt in my pockets; I had the flashlight and the package. I wished I had a rabbit’s foot for luck.
There was no moon. It wouldn’t have mattered much if there had been. There were street lights all over the place. Luckily, there were lots of shade trees and hedges. I could hear my footsteps thundering behind me; my shadow came up under me, grew, marched ahead, then faded away, as I walked along the sidewalk. The house was dark. I turned in and made my way past the attached garage, and a very noisy-looking garbage can, to the back. Here I found a screened-in porch with stacks of summer furniture lying in dusty disorder. The screen door opened easily, with a twang of its spring. There was enough light for me to find the inside door without lighting my flash. I could make out the metallic glint of the spring lock above the knob. I fished out the key, and inserted it. I was a little surprised that it turned.
I closed the door behind me, and brought out my flash. I was in a bright kitchen. The tile was real, 1930s, not plastic, and it extended down to the counter tops. The floor was terracotta. I moved forward keeping the beam of my flashlight as low as possible. I made my way through a narrow hall into the front vestibule and then easily found the stairs, which curved down at me. I went up. The walls in the hall upstairs looked mushroom col-our in this light, but were probably pink. I found the second doorway to the right and went it. A large bed dominated the room. It was neat, covered with a chintz bedspread that matched the curtains. The bureau stood between the two windows. I opened the drawer. A flash of light had cut across the front of the house. I slipped the package into the drawer, which was full of rolled socks, and closed it quickly. I was half finished. The other half of the job was for myself; I was going to nose around and find out what this whole thing was all about.
My retreat took me back the way I’d come except that when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw the light slide by the front window again. I felt a flea crawl from my armpit down to my waist. On second thought, I’d nose around someplace else. I must have crossed to the back door in less than two seconds and without making a sound. You couldn’t hear the clock as I closed the door, and in a second I had left the porch. My mind was working out where I could safely hide for a few minutes when the sun exploded in my face.
“Hey!”
“Don’t move!” I didn’t, although I tried to shield my face from the powerful flashlight shining in it. I tried it every way, but the light held me like the arm of an arresting officer.
“Get that light out of my eyes. I’m not going anywhere. Is this 184 Bellevue Terrace?”
“You know damn well it isn’t. Stand where you are, and don’t try anything.”
“What should I try?” I could hear footsteps coming along the sidewalk leading from the front of the house.
“Bill?” a voice inquired.
“Yeah,” said a voice behind the light. “I got him.”
“Good. See if he’s carrying a gun.” That idea was almost too much for me.
“Look, you guys, I know what you must think this looks like, but let me tell you straight out that I can explain everything.”