He had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
“I’m Detective Kling,” he said. “How do you do?”
“Hullo,” she said dully. She seemed on the edge of tears. Her green eyes glistened, she extended her hand to him, and he took it clumsily, and they exchanged handshakes, and he could not take his eyes from her face. He realized all at once that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it abruptly, cleared his throat, and reached into his pocket for his pad.
“I don’t believe I have your name, miss,” he said.
“Augusta Blair,” she said. “Did you see the mess inside? In the bedroom?”
“I’ll lake a look in a minute,” Kling said. “When did you discover the theft, Miss Blair?”
“I got home about half an hour ago.”
“From where?”
“Austria.”
“Nice thing to come home to,” Ingersoll said, and shook his head.
“Was the door locked when you got here?” Kling asked.
“Yes.”
“You used your key to get in?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody in the apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything? Any sound at all?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I came in, and I left the door open behind me because I knew the doorman was coming up with my bags. Then I took off my coat and hung it in the hall closet, and then I went to the John, and then I went into the bedroom. Everything looked all right until then. The minute I stepped in there, I felt… invaded.”
“You’d better take a look at it, Bert,” Ingersoll said. “The guy went sort of berserk.”
“Thai it?” Kling asked, indicating a doorway across the room.
“Yes,” Augusta said, and rose from the couch. She was a tall girl, at least five-seven, perhaps five-eight, and she moved with swift grace, preceding him to the bedroom door, looking inside once again, and then turning away in dismay. Kling went into the room, but she did not follow him. She stood in the doorframe instead, worrying her lip, her shoulder against the jamb.
The burglar had slashed through the room like a hurricane. The dresser drawers had all been pulled out and dumped onto the rug — slips, bras, panties, sweaters, stockings, scarves, blouses, spilling across the room in a dazzle of color. Similarly, the clothes on hangers had been yanked out of the closet and flung helter-skelter — coats, suits, skirts, gowns, robes strewn over the floor, bed, and chairs. A jewelry box had been overturned in the center of the bed, and bracelets, rings, beads, pendants, chokers glittered amid a swirl of chiffon, silk, nylon, and wool. A white kitten sat on the dresser top, mewing.
“Did he find what he was looking for?” Kling asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “My good jewelry was wrapped in a red silk scarf at the back of the top drawer. It’s gone.”
“Anything else?”
“Two furs. A leopard and an otter.”
“He’s selective,” Ingersoll said.
“Mmm,” Kling said. “Any radios, phonographs, stuff like that?”
“No. The hi-fi equipment’s in the living room. He didn’t touch it.”
“I’ll need a list of the jewelry and coats, Miss Blair.”
“What for?”
“Well, so we can get working on it. Also, I’m sure you want to report this to your insurance company.”
“None of it was insured.”
“Oh boy,” Kling said.
“I just never thought anything like this would happen,” Augusta said.
“How long have you been living here?” Kling asked incredulously.
“The city or the apartment?”
“Both.”
“I’ve lived in the city for a year and a half. The apartment for eight months.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“Seattle.”
“Are you presently employed?” Kling said, and took out his pad.
“Yes.”
“Can you give me the name of the firm?”
“I’m a model,” Augusta said. “I’m represented by the Cutler Agency.”
“Were you in Austria on a modeling assignment?”
“No, vacation. Skiing.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Ingersoll said. “I’ll bet I’ve seen your picture in the magazines.”
“Mmm,” Augusta said without interest.
“How long were you gone?” Kling asked.
“Two weeks. Well, sixteen days, actually.”
“Nice thing to come home to,” Ingersoll said again, and again shook his head.
“I moved here because it had a doorman,” Augusta said. “I thought buildings with doormen were safe.”
“None of the buildings on this side of the city are safe,” Ingersoll said.
“Not many of them, anyway,” Kling said.
“I couldn’t afford anything across the park,” Augusta said. “I haven’t been modeling a very long time, I don’t really get many bookings.” She saw the question on Kling’s face and said, “The furs were gifts from my mother, and the jewelry was left to me by my aunt. I saved six goddamn months for the trip to Austria,” she said, and suddenly burst into tears. “Oh, shit,” she said, “why’d he have to do this?”
Ingersoll and Kling stood by awkwardly. Augusta turned swiftly, walked past Ingersoll to the sofa, and took a handkerchief from her handbag. She noisily blew her nose, dried her eyes, and said, “I’m sorry.”
“If you’ll let me have the complete list…” Kling said.
“Yes, of course.”
“We’ll do what we can to get it back.”
“Sure,” Augusta said, and blew her nose again.
Al ten minutes to one on Wednesday afternoon, Augusta Blair called the squadroom and asked to talk to Detective Kling, who was on his lunch hour and down the hall in the locker room, taking a nap. Meyer asked if Kling could call her back and she breathlessly told him she had only a minute and would appreciate it if he could be called to the phone. It had to do with the burglary, she said. Meyer went down the hall and reluctantly awakened Kling, who did not seem to mind at all. In fact, he hurried to his desk, picked up the receiver, and said, quite cheerfully, “Hello, Miss Blair, how are you?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you all daylong, Mr. Kling, but this is the first break we’ve had. We started at nine this morning, and I didn’t know if you got to work that early.”
“Yes, I was here,” Kling said.
“I guess I should have called then. Anyway, here I am now. And I’ve have to be back in a minute. Do you think you can come down here?”
“Where are you, Miss Blair?”
“Schaeffer Photography at 580 Hall Avenue. The fifth floor.”
“What’s this about?”
“When I was cleaning up the mess in the apartment, I found something that wasn’t mine. I figure the burglar may have dropped it.”
“I’ll be right there,” Kling said. “What was it you found?”
“Well, I’ll show you when you get here,” she said. “I’ve got to run, Mr. Kling.”
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll…”
But she was gone.
Schaeffer Photography occupied the entire fifth floor of 580 Hall. The receptionist, a pert blonde with a marked German accent, informed Kling that Augusta had said he would be coming, and then directed him to the studio, which was at the end of a long hallway hung with samples of Schaeffer’s work. Judging from the selection, Schaeffer did mostly fashion photography; no avid reader of Vogue, Kling nonetheless recognized the faces of half the models, and searched in vain for a picture of Augusta. Apparently she had been telling the truth when she said she’d been in the business only a short while.