The florist shook his head.
“You don’t feel like talking, do you? Maybe you’d feel more like it if you came down to headquarters with me.”
Agousti shrugged. “I’m telling you. There ain’t nothing on my conscience. I ain’t afraid to go anywhere you like.”
Teccard made one more try. He described the man Helen had gone with.
“Know him?”
Recognition crept into the florist’s eyes. “I ain’t dead sure. But from how you putting it, this one might be Stefan.”
“Who’s Stefan?”
“Stefan Kalvak. He’s no good, a low life, sure.”
“Yair, yair. Who is he? What’s he do? Where’s he live?”
“He’s Miss Kalvak’s brother, she really owns this shop. I run it for her. She’s O.K., fine. But Stefan’s a bum, a stinker. Always stealing dough out the cash register when I don’t watch. Or getting girls into trouble, you know.”
“He’s done his best to get you in trouble. He sent your picture to this girl up in Algers — so she’d come to New York to get married.”
“Holy Mother!”
“Where’s he live?”
“You got me. His sister threw him out of her apartment. But you could phone her—”
A freckle-faced boy burst into the shop. “My pa sent me for the ivy for ma’s birthday, Mr. Agousti.”
“All right, Billy. Excuse me, one second.” The florist whisked out of sight, back of the showcase.
The boy jingled seventy-five cents on the counter, an elevated roared overhead — and Teccard began to sweat, thinking of Helen Dixon and Stefan Kalvak.
The youngster called. “Pa says you needn’t bother to wrap it up, Mr. Agousti.”
There was no answer from the rear of the shop, though the sound of the elevated had died away.
Teccard stepped quickly around the glass case.
Agousti was leaning, face down, over a wooden bench — his head under the spreading fronds of a potted palm. There was a dark puddle on the boards of the bench, it widened slowly as drops splashed into it from the gash in the florist’s neck.
A sharp-bladed knife that had evidently been used to cut flower stems lay with its point in the glistening disk of crimson. There was blood on Agousti’s right hand, too. Teccard lifted the limp wrist, saw the slash across the base of the fingers.
That settled it! A man didn’t cut his hand that way, when he slashed his own throat! The florist had been attacked from behind, while he was putting the ivy in a flowerpot. He had tried to block off the blade that was severing his jugular — and had failed.
Not five feet from the dead man’s back was a rear delivery door, with a wire screen nailed over the glass. The door was closed, but not locked.
Teccard tore a piece of green, glazed paper from the roll fixed to the end of the bench, wrapped it around the knob and twisted it. Then he opened the door.
A narrow alley ran behind the two-story building. It was floored with cement. There wouldn’t be any footprints on it — and there wasn’t anyone in sight.
He came inside, shut the door. He stuck his nailfile through the oval handle of the key, turned it until the bolt shot home.
The boy stuck his head around the corner of the glass case. Teccard stepped quickly between him and the body.
“Is he sick?” the youngster began.
“Yair. You go home, tell your father the ivy will be over later.”
“O.K., mister. Gee, I’m sorry—”
“Wait a minute, son. You seen Stefan Kalvak around tonight?”
The boy made a face. “Naw. Steve ain’t never around, except with girls. I don’t like him, anyways—”
“You know where he lives?”
He jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “I guess he lives right up over the flower store, here.”
Teccard was startled. “That so?” Maybe the kid didn’t know about the sister tossing Stefan out on his ear...
The boy ran. When he’d gone, the lieutenant felt in the pockets of the dead man, without disturbing the position of the body. There was a leather container, with four Yale keys. He took them.
One of the keys fitted the front door. He used it, from the street. Then he stepped into the entrance-way to the second floor stairs.
There was only one mailbox, a big brass one with a mother-of-pearl push button and a neatly-engraved card: Vanya Kalvak, Floriculturist.
He went up the stairs, noiselessly.
There were two doors opening off the second-floor hall. The one nearest the front of the building had another of the engraved cards tacked to it.
He heard voices. They came from the room behind the door at the head of the stairs.
The tones of the girl who’d asked Agousti to deliver the wreaths were very distinct.
“Why do you come here, anyway, Miss Yulett?”
“Your brother brought me here,” Helen answered. “He said it was all right.”
Teccard’s heart skipped a couple of beats. What was Helen doing, talking? She must have been startled out of her wits by this other woman and been caught off guard. He put his ear to the panel.
“I’m very sorry for you, Miss Yulett.”
“I don’t understand! Why should you be?” The sergeant was still playing her part. “Peter said he would be back in a moment. He’ll explain.”
“Peter!” The girl’s tone was one of disgust.
“His name is Stefan. Stefan Kalvak.”
“It all seems very queer. I can’t imagine why he lied to me about his name. But you ought to know, since you’re his sister.”
The girl laughed harshly. “You stupid idiot! He is my husband.”
“What!” The sergeant didn’t have to fake that exclamation, Teccard thought.
“It is the truth. I am his wife, God forbid.” The girl spat out the words. “I know what he told you. The same as he told those others.”
“You’re just trying to drive me away from him.”
Teccard decided they were in the kitchen of the apartment. One of them kept moving about restlessly — probably Mrs. Kalvak.
“I’m trying to save your life. You don’t know Stefan. He’s a fiend, absolutely. After he’s taken your money — have you already given it to him?”
“No,” Helen answered. “Tomorrow after we get the license, we will talk over buying the business.”
“Tomorrow, you will be dead — if you do not let me help you get away.”
“I should think you’d — hate me, Mrs. Kalvak. But honestly, I didn’t know Peter — Stefan — was married.”
“I don’t care about you one way or the other. The reason I’m praying to God for you to get away quickly is that I don’t want him caught.”
“No...”
“I know what would happen to him, if the police got him. My eyes haven’t been closed all these months. Stefan hasn’t earned the money he’s been spending. Nevertheless—” she hesitated — “nevertheless, I love him.”
A phone bell jangled in the front room. Mrs. Kalvak stalked away to answer it. Teccard waited until he heard her answering in monosyllables, then he tried the door. It was locked.
“Helen,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “Helen!”
The sergeant didn’t hear him.
Mrs. Kalvak was storming back into the kitchen. “You talk of lying!” she cried. “You... trickster!” Mrs. Kalvak’s voice rose in anger. “That was Stefan on the phone.”
“He’s coming back, then?”
“Sooner than you like, my fine deaf lady!”
“Wait—”
“You’re no country innocent, Miss Yulett. I know who you are. You’re a detective — trying to trap my man. And all the time I was sorry for you, thinking you were caught in his net!”