“Do you think she told anybody?” I asked, kicking the rug over Molly, wrapping her in it as if she was a hunk of baloney.
“Not this pig. She probably figured on going for the dough alone by killing us in our sleep.”
“Suppose somebody comes around asking for her?”
“Molly was never the friendly type. If the doorbell rings, we'll face it then. Another few days and we'll be ready to blow this hole.”
“And go where?”
“I haven't the faintest idea—yet.” Doc smiled down at me as if talking to a kid asking dumb questions. Sometimes that annoyed the devil out of me.
We carried the rug and Molly upstairs. I'd never seen much of the house before and it was awful creepy, full of broken furniture, thick dust and dirt over everything. In Molly's bedroom we found stacks of old newspapers, boxes of dirty clothes—things piled high as the cracked ceiling. It was strictly nutty, miser stuff. And if our room was under this—old as the dump was—it was a wonder the floor didn't collapse. Her closet held torn dresses, hills of worn shoes, scattered dirty underwear that had to have come from a trash can. Molly never even threw a used toothpick away. But her bed was a modern foam mattress on smart iron legs, and in a cedar bag we found a mink coat smelling clean and new—a good mink like Judy wanted.
Doc laughed at the coat. “Bucky, as you see, vanity never ages. Why, this must have set Molly back at least a thousand, even if she bought it hot. If we look hard enough we'll find money here.”
“Let's get back downstairs. Makes me nervous leaving the bags.”
“I wasn't thinking of her lousy few bucks,” Doc said, almost to himself. “If we ransacked the house, make it robbery, the work of a punk who had his eye on miser Molly, killed her while hunting for the loot...”
“That's an idea,” I said, admiring Doc. His brain was always ticking.
“No.” Doc shook his head. “Be a waste of time. Ballistics will check the lead in Molly and link it with the slug in the kidnapper; they'll know it's us. No, forget it. Shut that closet door tightly and stuff the cracks with paper—the old gal will smell rather strong in a few days.”
“I hope we'll be long gone from here in a few days,” I said as Doc went into the hole she called a bathroom, began poking around. I took some newspapers—dated two years ago—and closed the closet door as hard as I could, got down on my knees and began stuffing paper around the door. That was another thing about Doc that sometimes got on my nerves—his habit of ordering me about. Of course he was the senior man, but this was hardly police work!
As I was stuffing the top of the door, Doc returned, holding a small bottle.
I asked, “What is it—dope?”
“It's a blond rinse. She has a case of the junk. A lot of cosmetics.” He pocketed the bottle. “Move some of those boxes of junk against the closet door—no, put a couple piles of papers against the door. We'll look through the boxes—we ought to find some men's clothing. And keep away from the windows.”
“Hell, the windows are so grimy nobody could see us.” I moved a big stack of old papers against the closet door, began to sweat. Then I kicked a cardboard carton open. “What do we need clothing for?”
It was real disgusting, the lousy boxes were just that—full of all kinds of bugs, even worms, and a startled mouse. Doc picked out a dirty, cracked leather windbreaker and a couple pairs of shabby pants. I still didn't know what he wanted with this junk. Shaking the windbreaker, Doc grinned at me, said, “I wonder what thug owned this? Must be a dozen years old.”
“When do you figure this joint was last used as a hide-out, Doc?”
“Hard to say—perhaps ten minutes before we pulled in. Who knows? Back during Prohibition this was a blind pig and a popular hiding place for the big shots. Molly even had girls stashed away for the boys. The last I know of anybody using this was Baldy Harper, who was wanted for a knife party back in 1949—or was it 1951? I wasn't on the case but—”
“The hell with it. Let's get back to the suitcases.”
“Sure.” He slapped me on the back, hard. “Don't get your nerves up, kid. It's only paper.”
“But a million bucks is so much paper.” I headed for the stairs, and Doc followed me, carrying the clothing.
We looked through the kitchen, scattering roach patrols. The bugs must have been a frantic lot, for the cheap bag didn't have any food around—a few cans of beans, stale coffee, a can of milk that smelled awful. The odd part was, she had a spotless refrigerator, and completely empty. Not even a brew. Sitting on an unstained part of the kitchen table, I asked, “Now what, mastermind?”
Like Nate, Doc never got rattled. He laughed at me. “It's simple, S.O.P.: We keep sitting tight.”
“The only think tight will be our guts—we have to eat.” And Bucky boy, you well know how much I enjoy eating. We shall eat very well, too.”
“How? Even the roaches are having it rough.” I glanced at my watch, the same one Nate had given me for graduation years ago. The boxer's arms said it was ten to six. “It's damn near suppertime now. You going to saute the bugs, or maybe roast those old clothes?”
“I wish you'd put that childish watch away. Time has little meaning for us now. A timeless world is one of man's goals. We are fortunate to—”
“Okay, Doc, but we can't eat words. Exactly how are we going to eat so 'well'?”
He patted the clothes he had tossed on a chair. “I may be fairly well known in this end of town; I used to have a post here when I was a harness bull. That's how I knew about Molly and this hide-out. While that was over sixteen years ago, it would still be far too risky for me to venture outside. But you can go out and buy—”
“Me?” I jumped off the table. “You're talking like a man with a paper head! Remember the whole damn force is looking for the both of us!”
Doc nodded, that wise tight smile on his unshaven puss, as though I'd just made a funny. “I know. The beat cop most certainly has a general description of you: young, stocky, black hair, well-dressed.” He pulled out the bottle of hair dye, threw it on top of the old clothes. “Disguise has become a lost art among you younger detectives. Look, as soon as it's dark a blond, middle-aged man in worn work clothes with a blanket around his middle to make him look stout will easily be able to walk the two or three blocks it will take you to find a delicatessen. The nearest one is run by an old German, a very clean store. You'll be perfectly safe. You won't buy much: beer, a few packs of butts, sandwiches. Ordinary staples. Granted it's a chance, but a very little one. It's comparatively simple to make a young fellow look old, but to make a man my age look young—well, it would be much more of a chance if I tried it.”
“I'd have to be crazy to buy that!”
“Bucky, Bucky, you sound as if I was throwing you to the lions. We're in this together all the way. Do you think I'd let you take a real risk? Hell, if you got caught they'd beat this hiding place out of you in no time, and I'd be collared too.”
“But Doc, going out... seems such a dumb thing.”
“Okay. We can use up these beans tonight, but tomorrow we'll have to eat. There's little point in our being the richest men who ever starved to death. I told you before, Bucky, we have to meet things as they come up. Now we have to cross the food bridge, just as a half hour ago we had to take care of Molly. Look, I know my business. I'll fix you up so you wouldn't recognize yourself in a mirror.”