“She worked with you at the hospital, isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Glennon said.
“And with your daughter, too.”
“What?”
“Your daughter. I understand Claire was friendly with her.”
“Who told you that?”
“The intern at Buenavista.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Glennon nodded. “Yes, they were friendly,” she admitted.
“Very friendly?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“What is it, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Huh? What?”
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. I’m answering your questions. When... when did... When was Claire killed?”
“Friday evening,” Meyer said.
“Oh, then she—” Mrs. Glennon closed her mouth.
“Then she what?” Meyer asked.
“Then she... she was killed Friday evening,” Mrs. Glennon said.
“Yes.” Meyer watched her face carefully. “When was the last time you saw her, Mrs. Glennon?”
“At the hospital.”
“And your daughter?”
“Eileen? I... I don’t know when she saw Claire last.”
“Where is she now, Mrs. Glennon? At school?”
“No. No, she... she’s spending a few... uh... days with my sister. In Bethtown.”
“Doesn’t she go to school, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Yes, certainly she does. But I had the appendicitis, you know, and... uh... she stayed with my sister while I was in the hospital... and... uh... I thought I ought to send her there for a while now, until I can get on my feet. You see?”
“I see. What’s your sister’s name, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Iris.”
“Yes. Iris what?”
“Iris — why do you want to know?”
“Oh, just for the record,” Meyer said. “I don’t want you to bother her, mister. She’s got troubles enough of her own. She doesn’t even know Claire. I wish you wouldn’t bother her.”
“I don’t intend to, Mrs. Glennon.”
Mrs. Glennon frowned. “Her name is Iris Mulhare.”
Meyer jotted the name into his pad. “And the address?”
“Look, you said—”
“For the record, Mrs. Glennon.”
“1131 56th Street.”
“In Bethtown?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. And you say your daughter Eileen is with her, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“When did she go there, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Saturday. Saturday morning.”
“And she was there earlier, too, is that right? While you were in the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“Where did she meet Claire, Mrs. Glennon?”
“At the hospital. She came to visit me one day while Claire was there. That’s where they met.”
“Uh-huh,” Meyer said. “And did Claire visit her at your sister’s home? In Bethtown?”
“What?”
“I said I suppose Claire visited her at your sister’s home.”
“Yes, I... I suppose so.”
“Uh-huh,” Meyer said. “Well, that’s very interesting, Mrs. Glennon, and I thank you. Tell me, haven’t you seen a newspaper?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then you didn’t know Claire was dead until I told you, is that right?” “That’s right.”
“Do you suppose Eileen knows?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“Well, did she mention anything about it Saturday morning? Before she left for your sister’s?”
“No.”
“Were you listening to the radio?”
“No.”
“Because it was on the air, you know. Saturday morning.”
“We weren’t listening to the radio.”
“I see. And your daughter didn’t see a newspaper before she left the house?”
“No.”
“But, of course, she must know about it by now. Has she said anything about it to you?”
“No.”
“You’ve spoken to her, haven’t you? I mean, she does call you. From your sister’s?”
“Yes, I... I speak to her.”
“When did you speak to her last, Mrs. Glennon?”
“I... I’m very tired now. I’d like to rest.”
“Certainly. When did you speak to her last?”
“Yesterday,” Mrs. Glennon said, and she sighed deeply.
“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Glennon, you’ve been very helpful. Shall I get you that milk? It’s probably warm enough by now.”
“Would you?”
Meyer went into the kitchen. The stove was set alongside a cabinet and a wall. A small cork bulletin board was nailed to the wall. A telephone rested on the cabinet. He took the pot of milk from the stove just as it was ready to over-boil. He poured a cupful and then called, “Do you want a lump of butter in this?”
“Yes, please.”
He opened the refrigerator, took out the butter dish, found a knife in the cabinet drawer, and was slicing off a square when he saw the hand-lettered note pinned to the bulletin board. The note read:
He nodded once, briefly, silently copied the address into his pad, and then carried the buttered milk to Mrs. Glennon. She thanked him for his kindness, asked him again not to bother her sister, and then began sipping at the cup.
Meyer left the apartment, wondering why Mrs. Glennon had lied to him. He was still wondering about it when he reached the first-floor landing.
The attack came swiftly and silently.
He was totally unprepared for it. The fist came flying out of the darkness as he turned the bend in the banister. It struck him on the bridge of his nose. He whirled to face his attacker, reaching for his holstered revolver at the same moment, and suddenly he was struck from behind with something harder than a fist, something that collided with the base of his skull and sent a fleeting wave of blackness across his eyes. He pulled the gun quickly and easily, something else hit him, there were more than two people, again he was struck, he heard his own revolver going off, but he had no knowledge of pulling the trigger. Something dropped to the floor with a clanging metallic sound, they were using pipes, he felt blood trickling into his eye, a pipe lashed out of the neardarkness, striking his mouth, he felt the gun dropping from his hand, felt himself falling to his knees under the steady silent onslaught of the unrelenting lead pipes.
He heard footsteps, a thousand footsteps, running over him and past him and down the steps, thundering, thundering. He did not lose consciousness. With his face pressed to the rough wooden floor, with the taste of his own blood in his mouth, he idly wondered why private eyes always swam down, down, down, into a pool of blackness, wondered idly why Mrs. Glennon had lied to him, wondered why he’d been beaten, wondered where his gun was, and groped for it blindly, his fingers sticky with blood. He crawled toward the steps.
He found the top step and then hurtled headlong down the flight, tumbling, crashing into the banister, cutting his bald scalp on the sharp edge of one of the risers, his legs and arms twisted ludicrously as he rolled and bounced to the ground-floor landing. He could see a bright rectangle of light where the vestibule door was opened to the street outside. He spit blood and crawled through the dim vestibule and onto the front stoop, dripping a trail of blood behind him, blinking blood out of his eyes, his nose running blood, his lips running blood.
He half crawled, half dragged himself down the low flight of steps and onto the sidewalk. He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to call out to anyone in the street.
No one stopped to assist him.
This was a neighborhood where you survived by minding your own business.
Ten minutes later a patrolman found him on the sidewalk, where he had swum down, down, down, into that pool of blackness.
The sign outside the garage read BODY AND FENDER WORK, EXPERT PAINTING AND RETOUCHING. The owner of the garage was a man named Fred Batista, and he came out to gas up Brown’s unmarked sedan only to learn that Brown was a detective who had come to ask questions. He seemed to enjoy the idea. He asked Brown to park the car over near the air pump and then invited him into the small garage office. Batista needed a shave, and he was wearing grease-covered overalls, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he and Brown went through the questioning routine. Maybe he’d never seen a cop up close before. Or maybe business was bad and he was glad for a break in the monotony. Whatever the reason, he answered Brown’s questions with verve and enthusiasm.