Don grinned tightly. The singer was Lou Blue of KYKI. He’d tuned too many superhets to that smouldering contralto not to be certain.
There was no other sound, inside 5-B. He heard the hum of the ascending elevator, ducked for the stair well, and ran on up.
He went all the way to the roof, congratulating himself on his foresight in wearing the coveralls with the garnet lettering on the back: Regal For Quick Repairs.
On the roof he found the right fire escape, went down it cautiously to the rear of 5-B. He kept a coil of wire over his shoulder, carried his kit conspicuously and held a pair of pliers, in case anyone should start asking questions. Nobody in any of the apartments he passed noticed him.
The shades in the rear windows of 5-B were drawn tight. He wouldn’t have been positive it was the right apartment, except that Lou Blue was giving out with “Mama, mama, mama, come dance with me.”
He traced the Tolman aerial to the roof, did things with wires, and crept back down the fire escape. The radio was giving a passable imitation of the Battle of the Bulge.
He took his time about climbing to the roof again, smeared a little grease on his chin before he went downstairs and thumbed the button at the 5-B door.
For maybe half a minute, nothing happened. The radio continued to explode intermittently, but at lower volume. Somebody had tuned it down.
Don’s mouth felt dry. That was funny, he thought. How could his mouth be so dry when he was streaming sweat.
Click! The door opened suddenly. He had heard no warning footsteps. Nothing — except bang, and there she was!
She wasn’t wearing the dress Annalou had described in detail so carefully to him. She wasn’t wearing much of anything except a filmy negligee that was about as concealing as cellophane. But her general appearance checked with the rough description Annalou had provided the police.
“Well?” she asked. There it was. The bland velvet voice.
“Radio repairs,” he blurted out with just the right mixture of embarrassment and wide-eyed admiration. “Sump’n wrong with the aerials. Mixup.”
“Do I care?” The willowy girl sized him up, coolly. “I didn’t call you. No complaint here.”
“Floor above.” Don grinned vaguely. His knees felt like melting butter. His voice sounded as if it belonged to somebody else and he was hearing it on a play-back. “Like to check your connections, if you don’t mind.”
“I do.” She started to close the door.
He anticipated her by a fraction of a second, blundering in as if he’d mistaken her refusal for an invitation. She blocked his way, suspiciously.
Out in the hall, the elevator door clanged. Somebody got out.
“Must be some trouble in your place,” Don said loudly, “it puts all the radios in the building on the blink. You don’t want everybody complainin’, do you?”
The footsteps clattering down the hall paused, momentarily.
“Come on in,” she snapped venomously.
He moved in. She closed the door behind him.
Acid dripped from her tongue. “Don’t get the idea you’re going to put the tap on me for any expense that’s involved.”
“It won’t cost you a cent, ma’am.” Don wondered if she could hear the way his heart was pounding. “I’m gettin’ mine from the other people.”
He followed her into a snauzy living-room. Thick, cream-colored chenille underfoot muffled his tread. Low, underslung furniture met his gaze all around. There were wood cuts in bleached-wood frames on the walls. Soiled clothes were piled on a huge divan. Among them was a man’s shirt, and a suitcase, lid up, stood beside the clothes.
Packing to go away, he thought. Not much man’s stuff around, though. Maybe I’m too late! Maybe he’s gone already.
She didn’t seem to be conscious of the litter, but she watched him with eyes bright with suspicion.
“Here’s the radio. It only went sour a few minutes ago.” She stood over him as he went down on hands and knees, got busy with his kit.
He put on a pair of dummy ear-phones, pretended to listen while he traced the ground connection. He followed it into the bedroom. Was that a shutting-door sound as he crawled in?
He scraped insulation off one of the cords that fed the lamp on the head of the four-poster. Beside him was the closet-door.
“That’s only a reading lamp you’re fooling with,” she challenged, her tone displaying steel under the velvet.
“You got ground interference here somewhere, lady. I’m right close to it, now.”
“No kidding,” she snapped. “I think you’d better skip the static gag, brother. I’ve got to go out. And so have you!”
“Anything you say.” His nerves tautened. He reached for the knob of the closet door to help himself to his feet.
“Keep your hands off that door!”
But Don pulled the door open as he stumbled laboriously erect. He got a fast glimpse of the closet. The pink and gray dress wasn’t there. A row of shoes was: women’s shoes, slippers, mules, sandals, all colors. Plus a stub-toed pair of Scotch grains, with ankles in them!
It was risky stuff, he knew, but he nerved himself to take his time about closing the door, clamping his foot against it as if by accident when he bent over his tool kit.
He came up with a hammer, a fist full of six-penny nails.
He wouldn’t have been shocked at the blast of a pistol, the sudden pain of a bullet crashing into his back, yet he jumped as if he’d touched a hot wire when she raked his face with needle-sharp nails.
He punched her. With the hand that held the nails. She went over backward as if he’d hit her with the hammer.
Before she could scramble to her feet he was smashing away at the first nail, driving it into the jamb and through into the frame.
There was a crashing blow from inside the closet. Wood strained, cracked. The top of the door bulged out an inch or so.
He drove another nail home before she came back. With a carving knife.
“Come near me with that, I’ll split your skull with this hammer!” he said through his teeth.
A dull muffled thump came from the closet. A splinter stuck out ominously from the door, leaving a small, round hole. Don stepped to one side, hammered in another big nail.
She moved in on him, catlike, knife held low for an underthrust.
He drove one more spike in near the top of the door before she was close enough to strike.
He lashed out with the hammer. She dodged, slashed at him viciously.
“Come on in, boys!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “We got both of ’em!”
She whirled. He flung himself on her back, wrested the weapon away from her.
Thump, bump, bump bump!
Four more holes, nicely shaped, low in the closet door. Don gave thanks, as he tapped the girl behind the ear with the hammer, that he hadn’t been standing there when those bullets came through the paneling. She sagged limply. It only took a couple of seconds to twist wire around her wrist and ankles. Then he went back to the door.
The man inside had reloaded, was shooting at the lock. Don lay flat on the floor, reached up, drove another nail. Another, another...
Before he went out in the living room to phone, he pushed the girl over against the door. For luck.
When he ran into the living room, the door to the hall was opening, noiselessly, slowly.
There was an eternity for Don to realize he’d been dumb enough to forget that the killer and his girl might have pals.
“Turn around!” A cold command from the hallway. “Stick your thumbs in your ears! Stay that way!”
Don obeyed. What a sap! Caught like this! His mind flashed to Annalou. She’d been right. It had been a matter for the police. And now... now—