“Have you known this Martha Tamid long?”
“Just a short while.”
“And after dinner you went back to her apartment, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“What time was that?”
“About eight or eight-thirty.”
“And you left there at what time?”
“About nine-thirty.”
“You stayed with her for an hour, is that right, Mr. Barlow?”
“About an hour, yes.”
“And then you went straight home?”
“That’s right,” Barlow said.
“And at no time during the night did you go back to the house. Not to check on anything, not to see if you’d left the gas on…”
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Barlow asked vehemently, turning on Kling.
“What?”
“You know how my brother died. If you think talking about gas is funny…”
“I’m sorry,” Kling said. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“I didn’t go back to the house,” Barlow said. “I don’t know what this is all about. If you don’t believe me, call Martha and ask her. She’ll tell you anything you want to know. What happened? Was someone else killed?”
“No, Mr. Barlow.”
“Then what?”
“Does Miss Tamid have a telephone?” Meyer asked.
“Yes.”
“May we have the number, please?” Hawes said.
* * * *
Miss Martha Tamid lived five blocks away from the Herbert Alexander Oval in Riverhead, a small grass-covered plot of ground in the exact center of which stood a statue of General Alexander astride a horse, looking into the wind with his steely penetrating gaze, his strong jaw, his rugged good looks. Hawes drove past the statue, and then turned into the One Way block called Yarley Street, watching the numbers as he drove, and finally pulling up before 1211. It was almost midnight, but they had called Miss Tamid from the office, and she said she wasn’t asleep yet and would be happy to tell them anything they wanted to know. They had told Barlow he could go, but Hawes had nodded at Kling, and Kling had followed Barlow the moment he left the squadroom. Then Hawes had clipped on his holster and begun his drive toward Riverhead.
Miss Tamid lived in a six-story apartment building at the end of the street. She had given Hawes the apartment number on the phone, and he pressed the lobby buzzer for 6C, and then waited for the answering buzz. It came almost instantly. He let himself in and walked to the elevator. The lobby was small and quiet. The entire building seemed to be asleep at this hour. He went up to the sixth floor, found apartment 6C in the center of the corridor, and rang the bell. He rang it only once, and with a very short ring. The door opened immediately.
Martha Tamid was a tiny girl who looked like an Egyptian belly dancer. Hawes wished he were a private detective because then Miss Tamid would have been in something slinky, or seductive, or both. As it was, she was wearing a blouse and slacks, which was good enough because neither did very much to hide the provocative structure of her tiny body.
“Miss Tamid?” he asked.
“Yes? Detective Hawes?”
“Yes.”
“Please, won’t you come in? I was waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry to be calling, so late, but we wanted to check this out as soon as possible.”
“That’s quite all right. I was watching television. Greta Garbo. She is very good, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
Martha Tamid closed the door behind Hawes and led him into her living room. The television set was going with an old Greta Garbo-John Gilbert movie. Miss Garbo was seductively gnawing at a bunch of grapes.
“She is very pretty,” Martha said, and then turned off the set. The room was suddenly very still.
“Now then,” Martha said, and she smiled.
The smile was a wide one. It lighted her entire face and touched her dark brown eyes, setting them aglow. Her hair was black, and she wore it very long, trailing halfway down her back. She had a small beauty mark near the corner of her mouth, and a dusky complexion he had always associated with Mediterranean peoples. There was an impish quality to her face, the smile, the ignited brown eyes, the tilt of her head, even the beauty mark. There was something else in her face, too, something about her rich body, an open invitation, a challenge, no, that was ridiculous.
He said, “Excuse me, are you a belly dancer?”
Martha laughed and said, “No, I’m a receptionist. Do I look like a belly dancer?”
Hawes smiled. “Well,” he said.
“But you have not even seen my belly,” Martha said, still laughing, one eyebrow going up just a trifle, just a very slight arching of the brow, but the challenge unmistakable, almost as if she had said, “But you have not even seen my belly… yet.”
Hawes cleared his throat. “Where do you work, Miss Tamid?”
“At Anderson and Loeb.”
“Is that where you met Amos Barlow?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known him?”
“I’m only new with the firm,” Martha said.
“I’m trying to place your accent,” Hawes said, smiling.
“It’s a mélange,” Martha said. “I was born in Turkey, and then went from there to Paris, and then to Vienna with my parents. I have only been here in America for six months.”
“I see. When did you begin working for Anderson and Loeb?”
“Last month. I was going to school first. To learn typing and shorthand. Now I know them, so now I am a receptionist.”
“Do you live here with your parents, Miss Tamid?”
“No, I am twenty-three years old. That is old enough to live alone, n’est-ce pas, and to do what one desires.”
“Yes,” Hawes said.
“You are a very big man,” Martha said. “Do I make you feel uncomfortable?”
“No, why should you?”
“Because I am so small,” she said. The radiant challenge came onto her face again. “Though not all over,” she added.
Hawes nodded abstractly. “So then… uh… you met Mr. Barlow you started working at Anderson and Loeb last month.”
“Yes.” Martha paused. “Would you like something to drink?’
“No. No, thank you. We’re not allowed to on duty.”
“A pity,” she said.
“Yes.”
She smiled briefly, expectantly. “Did you see Mr. Barlow tonight?” Hawes asked.
“Yes.”
“At what time?”
“He picked me up at about six o’clock. Is Mr. Barlow in some trouble?”
“No, no, this is just a routine check,” Hawes said. “What time did you leave the office, Miss Tamid?”