“What was he doing here?”
“We gave him a list of some buildings we wanted photographed.”
“What time was this?”
“He got here about eleven or so, stayed maybe a half hour.”
“What about the girl?” Hawes said. “Is she a hooker?”
Worthy hesitated. “I couldn’t say for sure. She’s very cheap-looking, but that doesn’t mean much nowadays.”
“What’d you pay Harrod for taking these pictures?”
“We paid him by the hour.”
“How much?”
“Three dollars. Plus expenses.”
“Expenses?”
“For the film. And for developing and printing it. And for the enlargements you see here on the wall. Charlie did all that himself. He was very good.”
“But you say he worked only part time.”
“Yes.”
“How much would you say he earned in a week?”
“On the average? Fifty dollars.”
“How’d he manage to drive a Cadillac and wear hand-tailored suits on fifty bucks a week?” Hawes asked. “I have no idea,” Worthy said.
7
Maybe Elizabeth Benjamin had some ideas.
Maybe Detective Oliver Weeks, in his desire to pin something on Worthy and Chase, had rushed back to the Eight-Three and was at this very moment searching through his files and calling the Identification Section, instead of being where he should have been, which was at 1512 Kruger, in Apartment 6A, shaking down the joint and finding out what Elizabeth knew about Harrod’s source of income.
She was coming out of the apartment as Hawes approached the sixth-floor landing. She was wearing the clothes he had seen her in earlier, her high-stepping street clothes, and she was carrying two matched valises, one of which she put down on the floor. She pulled the door shut behind her, and was reaching for the valise when Hawes stepped onto the landing and said, “Going someplace, Liz?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Clear the hell out of this city.”
“Not yet,” he said. “We’ve got something to talk about.”
“Like what?”
“Like a dead man named Charlie Harrod.”
“Reason I’m getting out of this city,” Elizabeth said, “is because I don’t want nobody talking about a dead girl named me. Now you mind getting out of my way, please?”
“Unlock the door, Liz,” Hawes said. “We’re going back inside.”
Elizabeth sighed, put down both valises, swung her shoulder bag onto her abdomen, unclasped it, and was reaching into it when she saw the revolver appear in Hawes’s fist. Her eyes opened wide.
“Bring your hand out slowly,” Hawes said. “Wide open and palm up.”
“I was only going for the key, man,” Elizabeth said, and withdrew her hand and turned the open palm toward Hawes, the key to the apartment resting on it.
“Turn the bag over,” Hawes said. “Empty it on the floor.”
“Ain’t nothing deadly in it.”
“Empty it, anyway.”
Elizabeth turned the bag over. As she had promised, there was nothing deadly in it. Hawes felt a trifle foolish, but no more foolish than he would have felt if she’d later pulled a .22.
“Okay?” she said, and began putting the collection of lipsticks, mascara, Kleenex, Life Savers, address book, wallet, loose change, ballpoint pen, postage stamps, and grocery list back into the bag. “What’d you expect to find in there?” she said. “An arsenal?”
“Just hurry it up,” Hawes said, still mildly embarrassed.
“No, tell me what you thought was in there, Officer,” she said sweetly. “A squadron of B-52s?” She snapped the bag shut, threw it over her shoulder, and then turned to unlock the door. “The whole Sixth Fleet?” she said, and threw the door wide and picked up the valises.
Hawes followed her into the kitchen, closing and locking the door behind them. Elizabeth put both bags down, went directly to the sink, leaned against it, and folded her arms across her breasts.
“You forgot to turn on the water tap,” Hawes said.
“Hell with it,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t care what they hear no more.”
“Is the place bugged?”
“From top to bottom. Can’t even go to the John without somebody listening.”
“What about the phone?”
“Charlie busted the mike they had in there.”
“Who’s bugging the place, Liz?”
“You got me.”
“What was Charlie into?”
“Photography.”
“What else?”
“That’s all.”
“Are you a hooker?”
“No, Officer, I am not a hooker.”
“You’re unemployed, right?”
“Right.”
“And Charlie was earning fifty dollars a week, right?”
“I guess so. I don’t know what he earned.”
“Where’d he get the Cadillac?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And the fancy threads?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Have you ever been arrested, Liz?”
“Never in my life.”
“I can check.”
“So check.”
“Who’re you running from, Liz?”
“I’m running from whoever killed Charlie.”
“Got any idea who that might be?”
“No.”
“Where’s the bedroom?”
“What you got in mind?” Elizabeth asked, and grinned nastily.
“I want to look through Charlie’s things.”
“His things’ve been looked through,” Elizabeth said. “Four times already. The pigs’ve been in and out of this place like it was a subway station.”
“The police have been here before?”
“Not while we were home.”
“Then how do you know they were here?”
“Charlie set traps for them. Pigs ain’t exactly bright, you know. Charlie found those bugs ten minutes after they planted them.”
“Then why didn’t he rip them out?”
“He was jerking them off. He got a kick out of feeding them phony information.”
“About what?”
“About whatever they wanted to hear.”
“What did they want to hear, Liz?”
“Haven’t the faintest,” she said.
“Why were the police interested in Charlie Harrod?”
“Who knows? He was an interesting person,” Elizabeth said, and shrugged.
“Was he your pimp?” Hawes asked.
“I ain’t a hooker, so why would I need a pimp?”
“All right, show me the bedroom.”
“In there,” she said.
“Ladies first.”
“Yeah,” she said, and led him through the apartment.
There were two closets in the bedroom. The first one contained a dozen suits, two overcoats, three sports jackets, six pairs of shoes, two fedoras, and a ski parka. The labels in most of the suits, both overcoats, and one of the sports jackets were from a store specializing in expensive, hand-tailored men’s clothing. Hawes closed the door and went to the second closet. It was locked.
“What’s in here?” he asked.
“Search me,” Elizabeth said.
“Have you got a key for it?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll have to kick it in,” Hawes said.
“You need a warrant for that, don’t you?”
Hawes didn’t bother answering. He backed away from the door, raised his right leg, and released it pistonlike and flat-footed against the lock. He had to kick it three more times before the lock sprang.
“I’m sure you need a warrant for that,” Elizabeth said.
Hawes opened the door. The closet wasn’t a closet at all. Instead, it was a small room equipped as a darkroom, complete with steel developing tank, print washer, dryer, and enlarger. The room’s single window was painted black, and a naked red safelight hung over a countertop that rested on a bank of low metal filing cabinets. The countertop was covered with eight-by-ten white-enamel trays, metal tongs, and packages of developer, hypo, and enlarging paper. Wires had been tacked from one wall to the other, hung with photography clips. Hawes tried all the file drawers under the counter, but they were locked.