“Hello?” she called again. “Is anybody down there?”
We remained as quiet as mice-or cat burglars, if you prefer.
Finally, after a couple more calls and ensuing silences, Lettie gave up. She went back inside her apartment and slammed the door.
I had broken out in a nervous sweat, but Abby was giggling. “Poor Lettie,” she said. “When I get home, I’ll send her some daisies. But for now, we’d better get to work, you dig?” She stepped away from the door and made a sweeping gesture toward the lock. “It’s all yours, babe. Give that wallet thingamabob a whirl. Maybe the plastic is magic!”
And believe it or not, it
was. I sank into a squat, eased the stiff plastic picture holder between the lock and the doorjamb, gave it a wiggle and a jiggle and-click!-we were in.
BINKY’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL. VERY, very small. The kitchen was the size of a closet and the living room was so cramped Abby and I had to walk in single file to pass through it. Every piece of furniture in the room-the couch, two chairs, a table, and a television set-was set flush against a wall so as not to take up too much space. There was a separate bedroom, but all it could-and, indeed, did-hold was a small chest of drawers and a single bed.
“I don’t get it,” Abby said. “Binky’s a pretty big guy. How can he stand to live in such a tiny place?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad he does. It won’t take us long to case the joint.” (Humphrey Bogart or James Cagney, take your pick.)
“Where do we start?” Abby asked. “You said you wanted to look for a couple of things. What things?”
“The murder weapon primarily-a butcher knife, or something like that. Also a stash of bloody clothes and a pair of bloody shoes.”
“Ick!” Abby said, making a face. “The knife I understand-it could be cleaned up and put back in the drawer like nothing ever happened. But why the clothes? If Binky was the murderer, wouldn’t he have gotten rid of anything that had Gray’s blood on it?”
“If he was in his right mind,” I said, “and if he had the right opportunity. But those are two very big ifs.” I thought of my own bloody clothes and sandals, which were still sitting in a bag in the back of my coat closet, needing to be disposed of but totally forgotten until this very moment. “We know from Flannagan that the killer took a shower and changed his clothes before he left Gray’s apartment,” I went on, “and we know from our own firsthand observation that he didn’t leave anything-either the weapon or the gory clothes-at the scene.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So what did he do with them?” I questioned. “Maybe he burned them, or buried them, or tossed them in the East River. Or maybe he was so deranged and charged-up and afraid of getting caught that he ran straight home after the killing and hid the whole kit and caboodle in his apartment, figuring he’d get rid of the stuff after the heat blew over.” (Bogart, definitely Bogart.)
“Okay, okay! I hear you!” Abby said, shushing me up with her dismissive hand gestures. “That’s enough talking. We’re wasting time. You take the kitchen, I’ll start here in the living room.”
“Hey, wait a minute! Why the big rush? You said Binky would be gone all day. There’s no reason to hurry. I think we should take it real slow and do a very careful, thorough search of the premises. This is the only chance we’re ever going to get, and we can’t afford to do a sloppy job. This is really, really important!”
“I dig, I dig!” Abby said (impatiently, as usual). “I’ll crawl like a snail, Gail.” And to prove it she flipped on the living room light, dropped down to her hands and knees on the brown linoleum floor, then crawled across the room and stuck her head under the couch.
Anxious to get started myself, I darted into the minuscule kitchen, yanked open the drawer (there was only one), and started rummaging through the utensils. I found it almost immediately-a big knife with a broad, sharp blade; the kind used to cut up meat. I could easily imagine the large knife dripping with blood and gore, but the plain fact was-as of this minute, and as far as my unaided eye could see-it was clean as a whistle. Having no idea if this was the weapon that killed Gray Gordon, and no reasonable way to make that determination, I decided to leave the knife where it was for the time being and continue searching for real evidence (i.e., something with real blood on it).
I looked through the overhead cabinets lining the walls of the doorless, windowless kitchen, finding nothing but a couple of pots and pans, a can of beans, a box of Hi Ho crackers, three cans of Libby’s fruit cocktail, a box of Wheaties, a jar of Ovaltine, and a motley assortment of dishes and glasses. The cabinet under the sink offered nothing but a blue dishrag and a giant-size bottle of Glim dishwashing liquid.
Probably good for cleaning bloody knives, I mused. The oven was empty, and-except for a bottle of milk and a half-eaten can of fruit cocktail-the midget refrigerator was, too.
“I found a knife,” I said, returning to the living room, “but I don’t know if… Abby? Where are you?”
“In the bathroom!” she hollered, which was totally unnecessary since the apartment was so small I would have heard a whisper. “I’m checkin’ out the clothes hamper.”
I walked over to the open door of the bathroom and watched Abby pull a couple of pairs of boxer shorts and a damp bath towel out of a narrow white wicker basket. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, digging around in the hamper like a hobo foraging for food in the trash.
“Is there anything bloody in there?” I asked.
“Not a bloody thing!” she said, sitting upright, brushing a loose lock of hair off her face, then tossing all the stuff on the bathroom floor back into the basket. “This guy is so neat, clean, and organized, all the crap in his medicine cabinet is arranged alphabetically.”
“Really?!” I exclaimed. I could feel my eyes popping in surprise.
“No, Paige! No! That was just a figure of speech-an exaggeration used to illustrate a point. You know, for a writer you’re not too swift.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed for a split second, but quickly snapping my attention back to the search. “Did you find anything interesting in the living room, Ab? Anything with blood on it?”
“That’s a big fat
no, Flo!” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “There isn’t a speck of blood in there, or probably anywhere else in this focockta apartment. I knew there wouldn’t be. Binky may be a murderer, but he isn’t stupid.” She stood up from the tub, shoved the hamper back under the sink, and squeezed past me into the living room. “I did find this, though,” she said, snatching something that looked like a manuscript up off the table and handing it over for my inspection. “It’s the Cat on a Hot Tin Roof script, and the pages have been turned and folded and fondled so much they’re soft as cotton.”
I flipped through the well-worn script, noting several brownish splash stains throughout (Ovaltine, I figured, not blood), and one bright red PROPERTY OF THE ACTORS STUDIO stamp on the back (ink, undoubtedly ink). “The condition of this script shows Binky studied it long and hard,” I said, “which supports my theory that he wanted Gray’s job, but doesn’t prove that he murdered him. For definite proof of that, we have to find something here with blood on it-either Gray’s type O, or the killer’s type A.”
“Then we might as well blow this joint right now,” Abby declared. “We’re never going to find any evidence of blood in this spick-and-span pad. Binky’s way too sharp and clean for that. And I don’t think he’s the killer, anyway! You know who I think did it? Aunt Doobie, that’s who! If he was Gray’s boyfriend like you say, then
he was the one who did Gray in. You, of all people, should know the statistics, Paige. It’s almost always the spouse or the lover.”
“The key word here is