‘I am looking for Terry Zeigler,’ I said, giving him my cop stare.
‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘You look for him. I’ve got work to do.’ He began sweeping again.
‘Where do I find him?’
He paused, stared at me, then asked, ‘You a cop?’
‘I’m looking for him because he has come into some money.’
He stopped his tender sweeping and interest suddenly lit up his face which looked as if a child had carved out his features from a lump of lard.
‘Much?’
‘I don’t know. No one tells me anything.’
It’s wonderful how this worn-out gag works, I thought.
‘Would there be a reward?’
‘Could be twenty bucks if I was steered right.’
He scratched his hairy arm while he thought, then leant his massive weight on the broom handle.
‘Terry Zeigler?’
‘Right.’
‘He rented the top apartment around eighteen months ago. Paid steadily. No problems, though he seemed to work night and days. Then two months ago, he took off. He told me he was quitting, paid the rent, slung a couple of suitcases in that Olds of his and left. That’s the last I’ve seen of him.’
Patiently, I asked, ‘He didn’t say where he was going?’
‘No. Why should I care? They come and they go.’
‘An Olds, you say. Remember the number?’
This large lump of fat seemed to me as helpful as a fractured leg, but this one registered, even brought a gleam of intelligence to the lardy face.
‘Sure I remember a simple number like that. Want to write it down? PC10001.’
‘Did someone take his apartment?’
‘Yeah. Zeigler hadn’t been gone more than an hour when this girl arrived. She paid two months’ rent in advance, and moved in.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Dolly Gilbert. Anyway, that’s what she calls herself. I know nothing about her. She works nights is all.’
He began to move his broom restlessly so I decided maybe a little oil might produce something more tangible. I took out my wallet, thumbed out a five-dollar bill and let him see it.
He eyed the bill and stopped his sweeping.
‘That for me?’
‘Could be if you are more helpful. I have to find Zeigler. Surely someone in this building can give me a lead.’
‘Yeah.’ He paused to scratch his arm. I could almost hear his brains creak while he thought. ‘Come to think of it your best bet would have been Miss Angus. She could have told you about Zeigler. She lived in the apartment opposite his. She was a nice old lady: shoving 80. She cleaned for him and gave him a hot meal from time to time. She was one of these old girls who like being helpful. Nothing she liked better than to yak with people. She yakked with me until I nearly blew my top. Yeah, I guess, she could have told you about Zeigler.’
‘Could have?’ I asked. ‘Has she left?’
The janitor made restless movements, his eyes on the five-dollar bill so I gave it to him. He regarded the bill, kissed it and stowed it away in a pocket of his dirty trousers.
‘She certainly left — feet first. That was three days after Zeigler quit.’
‘What do you mean — feet first?’
‘When I was cleaning up on Miss Angus’s floor, I saw her front door was ajar. I remembered I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, so I looked in. There was Miss Angus lying on the floor. She was dead. I called the cops, and left it to them.’ He again scratched his arm. ‘I can do without the fuzz asking questions and making pests of themselves. I couldn’t tell them a thing. Finally the cops decided it was some junkie, looking for money, who killed her. He had punched her in the face and her home was turned over. At her age, a punch in the face is a killer. I guess she could have told you where you might find Zeigler. She often spoke to me about him, saying what a nice boy he was. I shouldn’t think he would have walked out of here without telling her where he was going. Well, that’s it. Can’t do more for you, can I?’
‘Someone take on Miss Angus’s apartment?’
‘Not yet. She had a three-year lease and her own furniture. Some lawyer is tying up her affairs. As soon as he’s finished, the apartment will go fast.’
‘Do you know who the lawyer is?’
‘Some Yid. He came to see me.’
‘Know his name?’
The janitor scratched his arm again, thought, then said, ‘Solly Lewis.’
I decided he wasn’t going to produce any further information of interest.
‘OK, and thanks,’ I said. ‘Maybe, I’ll be seeing you later with another five-dollar bill.’
He nodded.
‘That’s fine with me. Come as often as you like.’
I climbed the stairs to the lobby and went out into the humid heat where Bill was leaning against our car, chewing gum.
‘Getting places,’ I said. ‘Find out the address of a lawyer: Solly Lewis. I’ll be back in a while.’
I returned to the lobby and took the elevator to the top floor. There were only two apartments up there. On the right-hand door was a sticker that read Miss Dolly Gilbert.
I leaned against the bell push. Waited, then leaned again. I thought at this hour, which was now 17.50, Dolly might just be out of bed. I had to ring a third time before the front door jerked open.
I was confronted by a girl who looked around 20 years of age: a blonde, with curly hair, a face plastered with makeup, a mouth that told me that she had lived tough, and still lived that way. She was wearing a wrap that hung open. Apart from a pair of pink panties, she was naked.
She looked me over, then smiled. Her smile was that hard, welcoming smile a whore knows how to give.
‘Sorry, buster,’ she said. ‘In a couple of hours, huh? I’ve got a friend here right now.’
‘So what do I do? Wait around for a couple of hours?’ I said, giving her my friendly smile. ‘A pal of mine told me you could take care of me.’
I was looking beyond her at the big room, comfortably furnished with ageing furniture. Across the room was a door that probably led into the bedroom. The door was half-open.
‘I sure can,’ she said, ‘but right now...’
A voice suddenly boomed out of the bedroom.
‘Tell that fink to piss off! Let’s have some action! You think I’ve got all the goddam day?’
The girl stiffened.
‘Man! He sure is a wild one. See you,’ and she slammed the door in my face.
I knew for sure that harsh, booming voice had come from the mouth of a negro. There was no mistaking the lilt.
‘A wild one’, the girl had said.
I had a hunch. I rode the elevator down and joined Bill.
‘Get the address?’
‘Yeah. He’s in the book. 67 Seacomb Road.’
‘OK. Listen, Bill, within a short while, a black will appear. I want you to stay with him. I’ll leave you the car in case he’s on wheels. Stay with him. I want to know if he could just be Hank Smedley.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m going to talk to Solly Lewis.’
Seeing a passing taxi, I flagged it down.
Three
I found Solly Lewis on the top floor of a shabby block in a small room that pretended to be an office: a battered desk, a still more battered filing cabinet and a typewriter, standing on a small table that told me he did his own typing.
He was sitting behind the desk with a thin file before him. He regarded me coolly, then got to his feet. He was of average height, around 35 years of age, with thick black hair and a beard that nearly obscured his face. His clothes had done much service, and he was painfully thin as if he had only one square meal a week.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, and offered his hand.
I shook his hand, then taking out my wallet, I gave him my professional card. He waved me to the only other chair. It looked so elderly I was nervous lowering my weight onto it.