Hawes complied. The cop leaped the airshaft and approached Hawes cautiously. When he saw his face, he said, 'Oh, it's you, sir.'
'Yes, it's me, sir,' Hawes said disgustedly.
The landlady was having none of Cotton Hawes. The landlady was screaming and ranting for him to get out of her building. She had never had trouble with the cops, and now they came around shooting, what was going to happen to her tenants, they'd all move out, all because of him, all because of that big red-headed stupid jerk! Hawes told one of the uniformed cops to keep her downstairs, and then he went into Smith's apartment.
The bed had been slept in the night before. The sheets were still rumpled. Hawes went to the single closet in the bedroom and opened it. There was nothing in the closet except the wire hangers on the rod. Hawes shrugged and went into the bathroom. The sink had been used sometime during that day. Soap was still in the basin, clotted around the drain. He opened the medicine cabinet. A bottle of iodine was on the top shelf. Two bars of soap were on the middle shelf. A pair of scissors, a straight razor, a box of Band-Aids, a tube of shaving cream, a toothbrush and toothpaste, were all crowded onto the lowest shelf. Hawes closed the door, and left the bathroom.
In the bedroom again, he checked through Smith's dresser. Smith, he thought, John Smith. The phoniest name anybody in the world could pick. The dresser was empty of clothing. In the top drawer, six magazines for an automatic pistol rested in one corner. Hawes lifted one of them with his handkerchief. Unless he was mistaken, the magazine would fit a Luger. He collected the magazines and put them into his pockets.
He went into the kitchen, the sole remaining room in the apartment. A coffee cup was on the kitchen table. A coffee pot was on the stove. Bread crumbs were scattered near the toaster. John Smith had apparently eaten here this morning. Hawes went to the icebox and opened the door.
A loaf of bread and a partially used rectangle of butter were on one of the shelves. That was all.
He opened the ice compartment. A bottle of milk rested alongside a melting cake of ice.
The lab boys would have a lot of work to do in Smith's apartment. But Hawes could do nothing more there at the moment except speculate on the absence of clothing and food, an absence that seemed to indicate that John Smith—whatever his real name was—did not actually live in the apartment. Had he rented the place only to carry out his murder? Had he planned to return here after he'd done his killing? Was he using this as a base of operations? Because it was close to the precinct? Or because it was close to his intended victim? Which?
Hawes closed the door to the ice compartment.
It was then that he heard the sound behind him.
Someone was in the apartment with him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
His gun was in his hand before he whirled.
'Hey!' the woman said. 'What's that for?'
Hawes lowered the gun. 'Who are you, miss?'
'I live across the hall. The cop downstairs said I should come up here and talk to the detective. Are you the detective?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I live across the hall.'
The girl was unattractive, a brunette with large brown eyes and a very pale skin. She spoke from the side of her mouth, a mannerism that gave her the appearance of a Hollywood gun moll. She was wearing only a thin pink slip, and the one disconcertingly attractive thing about her was the bosom that threatened the silk.
'Did you know this John Smith character?' Hawes asked.
'The few times he was here, I seen him,' the girl said. 'He only moved in a couple of weeks ago. You know, you noticed him right away.'
'How often has he been here since he moved in?'
'Only a couple of times. I came in one night he was here—to introduce myself, you know? Neighbourly. What the hell?' The girl shrugged. Her breasts shrugged with her. She was not wearing a brassiere, and Hawes found this disconcerting, too. 'He was sitting right there at the kitchen table, cutting up newspapers. I asked him what he was doing. He said he kept a scrapbook.'
'When was this?'
'About a week ago.'
'He was cutting up newspapers?'
'Yeah,' the girl said. 'Goofy. Well, he looked goofy, anyway. You know what I mean.'
Hawes bent to examine the kitchen table. Studying it closely, he could see traces of paste on the soiled oilcloth covering. Then Smith had composed the letter here, and it had been only a week ago, and not on the Sunday of June 23rd. He had simply used an old newspaper.
'Was there paste on the table?' Hawes asked her.
'Yeah, I think so. A tube of paste. Well, for his scrapbook, I guess.'
'Sure,' Hawes said. 'Ever talk to him again after that night?'
'Just in the hall.'
'How many times?'
'Well, he was here one night after that. Last week, I mean. And then he was here last night.'
'Did he sleep here last night?'
'I guess so. How should I know?' The girl seemed suddenly aware that she was wearing only a slip. She crossed one arm over her abundant bosom.
'What time did he get here last night?'
'Pretty late. After midnight, it must've been. I was listening to the radio. It was very hot last night, you know. It's almost impossible to get any sleep in these apartments. They're just like ovens. The door was open, and I heard him down the hall, so I went out to say hello. He was putting the key in the lock, looking just like a Russian spy, I swear to God. All he needed was a bomb, and that would be the picture.'
'Did he have anything with him?'
'Just a bag. Groceries, I guess. Oh, yeah. Glasses. You know. Opera glasses. I asked him was he just getting back from the opera.'
'What did he say?'
'He laughed. He was a hot sketch. Smith. John Smith. That was funny, don't you think?'
'What was funny about it?' Hawes asked.
'Well, the cough drops and all, you know. He was a hot sketch. I guess he won't be coming back after today, huh?'
'I guess not,' Hawes said, trying to keep up with the somewhat vague conversation.
'Is he a crook or something?'
'We don't know. Did he ever tell you anything about himself?'
'No. Nothing. He didn't talk so much. Anyway, he was only here those few times. And even then, he always seemed in a hurry. I asked him once if this was his summer place. You know, like a joke. He said yeah this was his retreat. A hot sketch. Smith.' She laughed at the name.
'But he never told you where he worked. Or even if he worked?'
'No.' The girl crossed her other arm over her bosom. 'I better go put something on, huh?' she said. 'I was taking a little nap when all the shooting started. I got so excited when it was over, I run downstairs in my slip. I'm a real sight, ain't I?' She giggled. 'I better go put something on. It was nice talking to you. You don't seem like a bull at all.'
'Thank you,' Hawes said, and then wondered if he was being complimented.
The girl hesitated at the door. 'Well, I hope you get him, anyway. He shouldn't be too hard to find. How many like him can there be in the city?'
'How many Smiths, do you mean?' Hawes asked, and the girl thought this was hysterical.
'You're a hot sketch, too,' she answered. He watched her as she went down the hall. He shrugged, closed the apartment door behind him, and went downstairs to the street. The landlady was still screaming.
Hawes told one of the patrolmen to keep everybody out of Apartment Twenty-two until the lab boys had gone over it.
Then he went back to the precinct.
It was 5.00 p.m.
Carella was sitting at one of the desks drinking coffee from a container when Hawes walked in. Willis and Meyer had not yet returned. The squad-room was silent.