I looked at Elsie Londergan’s door for a second, thinking I might learn something by comparing the two entranceways, but quickly lost my train of thought and flew into a major panic. What if Elsie heard us out here in the hall, or saw us through her peephole, and came out to see what was going on? If she let on that she knew me and called me by my real name, my cover would be totally blown! I’d have to confess my real purpose for being here. And then I’d have to deal with Roscoe Swift as my actual self, which could significantly lower my chances of digging up any info about Gregory Smythe-not to mention leave me exposed to a possible new source of danger.
(Why, oh, why hadn’t I thought of this before? Before I had hoofed it up to Judy’s apartment like a demented donkey? Before I had so willingly-okay, mindlessly-placed myself in the position of a sitting duck? If I had any sense at all I’d quit my job at Daring Detective and look for work as an oyster shucker. Or maybe a street sweeper. Some kind of job where foresight didn’t figure.)
But I was a lucky duck (or donkey) for the moment. Elsie didn’t appear. And Swift lived up to his name by opening the door to Judy’s apartment swiftly. Then we both stepped inside and he closed the door behind us, flipping on the light.
My heart screeched to a halt. Standing there in Judy’s kitchen, holding my breath and blinking against the glare of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, I felt as if I had entered a tomb. Or a church. I was both deadened and electrified. And I felt closer to Judy Catcher than I ever had before. A trace of her cheap, spicy perfume still hung-like incense-in the stagnant air. I thought if I closed my eyes real tight, and concentrated real hard, I might be able to hear her humming…
But Roscoe quickly broke my spell. “You got to use your imagination,” he said, snapping open the kitchen window shade, then flinging wide the door to the bathroom. “The single girl who was living here moved out a few weeks ago, so the place looks empty and dreary right now. Needs some furniture and a homey touch. But just look at this flooring!” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the dingy, cracked linoleum as though it were a layer of marble veined with gold. “It’s like a ballroom dance floor! And the carpeting’s even better,” he said, lurching into the tiny sitting room and twirling once around like Arthur Murray himself. “It’s the perfect shade of red. They call it Prussian Passion. It goes with any color.”
Especially the color of blood, I thought, walking into the room and staring down at the carmine carpet, searching for the section I knew poor Terry had soaked and soaped and scrubbed with his own hands. It was faintly visible in the center of the floor, midway between the sitting room and the bedroom. A dusky oblong stain the size of a bathmat. The very spot where Judy’s soul had left her bleeding body.
The location of the stain didn’t actually prove anything, I realized, but it did indicate that the killer had been admitted to the interior of the apartment before the murder took place. (Okay, okay! I may have been jumping to conclusions. Yes, Judy could have been shot in the kitchen when she opened her door to the killer, and then she might have stumbled halfway to the bedroom before she fell. But it was far more likely that the two bullets fired straight into her heart would have killed her instantly-i.e., kept her from stumbling anywhere.)
“The apartment’s the right size for me,” I said, carefully bypassing the barely discernible bloodstain and heading into the bedroom. “And the location couldn’t be better. But my major concern is safety.” I walked over to the bedroom window, raised the worn shade and looked out at the rusty, partially snow-covered fire escape. “Do you have many break-ins here?”
“Never had a single one!” Roscoe swore, lying through his little brown teeth (the police had, after all, declared that Judy was shot during a random burglary). “This is the safest building in the whole goddamn city!” he insisted. “The neighborhood’s safe, too.”
Pretending to test its workability, I unlocked the bedroom window and raised it a couple of inches, checking both the frame and the glass for signs of a forced entry. There were no scratches or scrapes to speak of, and the glass panes were uniformly filthy, suggesting-if not proving-that none of them had been recently replaced. A blast of cold air prompted me to close the window and relock it.
“Next to safety, privacy is the most important thing to me,” I said, shivering, turning to look Roscoe right in the eye. “I don’t need any new friends or enemies. And I can’t stand gossips or busybodies. I’m an unmarried woman with a liberated lifestyle, and I want to live in a building where all the residents keep their noses in their own behinds.”
Roscoe let out a horsey laugh. I was speaking a language he understood. “Then you’ve come to the right place, toots,” he said, snorting and winking suggestively. “The last renter of this apartment felt exactly the same way you do and was very satisfied with the accommodations.”
“You mean the single gal who just moved out?”
“No,” he said.” Wink, wink. Snort, snort. “I mean the married guy who was paying the rent for the single gal who just moved out.”
“Aha,” I replied, lifting one eyebrow to a peak-letting Roscoe know, with a salty smile, I had gotten his message.
“And how did the neighbors react to this scandalous situation?” I asked. “Did they cause the illicit lovebirds any trouble?”
His scrawny chest puffed out with pride. “I never had one complaint from any of the other tenants.”
“That’s nice,” I said, “but what about the lovebirds themselves? Did any of the residents ever bother them? Were they ever hissed at, or spat on, or bombarded with rotten tomatoes?”
Roscoe laughed again. “I don’t know where you been livin’, sister, but here in Chelsea, we don’t do things like that.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” I said, trying to turn on the charm again-i.e., look alluring and bat my lashes. “But you know what would really help me make up my mind about this apartment, Roscoe?”
“What?” he said, jutting both his chin and his pelvis in my direction.
“If I could just talk to one of the lovebirds-either the guy or the gal-and ask a few questions, find out what it’s like to live here. I’m sure everything you’ve told me about the apartment and the area is true, but I’d still like to get a firsthand report. Nothing speaks like experience.” I paused and gave him a flirty smile. “And I don’t mind telling you,” I added, flapping my eyelids like a vapid fool, “if I get the good review I expect to get, then you’ve got yourself a brand new occupant!”
I was hoping he’d clap his hands and jump for joy, and then whip out pen and paper to write down Gregory Smythe’s unlisted phone number for me. But he didn’t. What he did was stiffen his puny spine, cock his lizardlike head to one side, narrow his steely eyes to the thinnest of slits, and start breathing fire through his nostrils again.
“Forget it, sister,” he growled, his swarthy, pockmarked skin turning a puky shade of puce. “You’re not getting any goddamn names or numbers from me! My other renters-even the ones who don’t live here anymore-happen to like their privacy just as much as you do.” He didn’t punch me in the face or kick me in the shin or anything like that, but he looked like he wanted to.
“Easy, Roscoe,” I soothed, keeping my voice steady and low, striving for a smooth recovery. “I didn’t mean to upset you. And I didn’t really want anybody’s phone number, either. To tell the truth, I was just testing you-trying to find out if you were the kind of landlord who would give out information about your tenants. I really couldn’t live with that. But I see I shouldn’t have worried about you! You passed the test with flying colors!” (Okay, I admit it. If Roscoe and I had been vying for the top chameleon crown, I’d have won it hands down.)