Or a car could have been waiting to take him anywhere.
When I returned to the apartment house precisely seventeen minutes later, there was a different uniformed attendant behind the desk.
'Mr Lord?' I asked.
'That's me,' he said.
I explained who I was and that I was investigating the disappearance of Professor Stonehouse on behalf of the family's attorneys.
'I already told the cops,' he said. 'Everything I know.'
'I realize that,' I said. 'He left the building about 8.45 on the night of January 10th — right?'
'That's right,' he said.
'Wearing hat, overcoat, scarf?'
'Yup.'
'Didn't say anything to you?'
'Not a word.'
'But that wasn't unusual,' I said. 'Was it? I mean, he wasn't exactly what you'd call a sociable man, was he?'
'You can say that again.'
I didn't. I said, 'Mr Lord, do you remember what the weather was like that night?'
He looked at me. He had big, blue, innocent eyes.
'I can't recall,' he said. 'It was a month ago.'
I took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, slid it across the marble-topped desk. A chapped paw appeared and flicked it away.
'Now I remember,' Mr Bert Lord said. 'A bitch of a night. Cold. A freezing rain turning to sleet. I remember thinking he was some kind of an idiot to go out on a night like that.'
'Cold,' I repeated. 'A freezing rain. But he didn't ask you to call a cab?'
'Him?' he said. He laughed scornfully. 'No way. He was afraid I'd expect two bits for turning on the light over the canopy.'
'So he just walked out?'
'Yup.'
'You didn't see which way he headed?'
'Nope. I couldn't care less.'
'Thank you, Mr Lord.'
'My pleasure.'
I went directly home, arrived a little after 5.00 p.m., changed into chino slacks and an old sports jacket, and headed out to eat. And there was Captain Bramwell Shank in his wheelchair in the hallway, facing the staircase. He whirled his chair expertly when he heard my door open.
'What the hell?' he said. 'I been waiting for you to come home, and you been inside all the time!'
'I got home early,' I explained. 'Not so long ago.'
'I been waiting,' he repeated.
'Captain,' I said, 'I'm hungry and I'm going out for something to eat. Can I knock on your door when I come back? In an hour or so?'
'After seven,' he said. 'There's a rerun of Ironsides I've got to watch. After seven o'clock is okay. Nothing good on till nine.'
Woody's on West 23rd was owned and managed by Louella Nitch, a widowed lady whose late husband had left her the restaurant and not much else. She was childless, and I think she sometimes thought of her clientele as her family. Most of the customers were from the neighbourhood and knew each other. It was almost a club. Everyone called her Nitchy.
When I arrived on the blowy Monday night, there were only a dozen drinkers in the front room and six diners in back. But the place was warm, the little lamps on the tables gleamed redly, the juke box was playing an old and rare Bing Crosby record ('Just a Gigolo'), and the place seemed a welcoming haven to me.
Louella Nitch was about forty and the skinniest woman I had ever seen. She was olive-skinned and she wore her hair cut short, hugging her scalp like a black helmet.
Her makeup was liberally applied, with dark eyeshadow and precisely painted lips. She wore hoop earrings, Victorian rings, necklaces of baroque medallions and amulets.
She was seated at the front of the bar when I entered, peering at a sheaf of bills through half-glasses that made her small face seem even smaller: a child's face.
'Josh!' she said. 'Where have you been? You know, I dreamed about you the other night.'
'Thank you,' I said.
I took the stool next to her and ordered a beer. She told me about her dream: she was attending a wedding and I stood waiting for the bride to come down the aisle; I was the groom.
'What about the bride?' I asked, 'Did you get a look at her?'
She shook her head regretfully. 'I woke up before she came in. But I distinctly saw you, Josh. You're not thinking of getting married, are you?'
'Not likely,' I said. 'Who'd have a runt like me?'
She put a hand on my arm. 'You think too much about that, Josh. You're a good-looking man; you've got a steady job. Lots of girls would jump at the chance.'
'Name one,' I said.
'Are you serious?' she said, looking at me closely. 'If you are, I could fix you up right now. I don't mean a one-night stand. I mean a nice, healthy, goodhearted neighbourhood girl who wants to settle down and have kids. How about it?
Should I make a call?'
'Well, uh, not right now, Nitchy,' I said. 'I'm just not ready yet.'
'How old are you — twenty eight?'
'Thirty-two,' I confessed.
'My God,' she said, 'you've only got two years to go.
Statistics prove that if a man isn't married by the time he's thirty-four, chances are he'll never get hitched. You want to turn into one of those old, crotchety bachelors I see mumbling in their beer?'
'Oh, I suppose I'll get married one of these days.'
I think she sensed my discomfort, because she abruptly changed the subject.
'You here for a drink, Josh, or do you want to eat? I'm not pushing, but the chef made a nice beef stew, and if you're going to eat, I'll have some put aside for you before the mob comes in and finishes it.'
'Beef stew sounds great,' I said. 'I'll have it right now.
Can I have it here at the bar?'
'Why not?' she said. 'I'll have Hettie set you up. There's a girl for you, Josh — Hettie.'
'Except she outweighs me by fifty pounds.'
'That's right,' she said, laughing raucously. 'They'd be peeling you off the ceiling!'
The stew was great.
I was putting on my parka when Louella Nitch came hurrying over.
'So soon?' she asked.
'Work to do,' I lied, smiling.
'Listen, Josh,' she said, 'I wasn't just talking; if you want to meet a nice girl, let me know. I mean it.'
'I know you mean it, Nitchy,' I said. 'You're very kind.
But I'll find my own.'
'I hope so,' she said sadly. Then she brightened. 'Sure you will. Remember my dream? Every time you've come in here you've been alone. But one of these days you're going to waltz through that door with a princess on your arm. A princess!'
'That's right,' I said.
2
Mr Tabatchnick, dusting fish feed from his fingers, looked at me as if he expected the worst.
'And exactly how, Mr Bigg,' he asked in that trumpeting voice, 'were you able to gain entrance to the Kipper household?'
I wished he hadn't asked that question. But I couldn't lie to him, in case Mrs Tippi Kipper called to check on my cover story. So I admitted I had claimed to be engaged in making an inventory of the Kipper estate. I had feared he would be angered to learn of my subterfuge. Instead, he seemed diverted. At least all those folds and jowls of his bloodhound face seemed to lift slightly in a grimace that might have been amusement.
But when he spoke, his voice was stern.
'Mr Bigg,' he said, 'when a complete inventory of the estate is submitted to competent authorities, it must be signed by the attorney of record and, in this case, by the co-executor. Who just happens to be me. Failure to disclose assets, either deliberately or by inadvertence, may constitute a felony. Are you aware of that?'
'I am now, sir,' I said miserably. 'But I didn't intend to make the final, legal inventory. All I wanted to do was — '
'I am quite aware of what you wanted to do,' he said impatiently. 'Get inside the house. It wasn't a bad ploy.
But I suggest that if Mrs Kipper or anyone else questions your activities in future, you state that you are engaged in a preliminary inventory. The final statement, to which I must sign my name, will be compiled by attorneys and appraisers experienced in this kind of work. Is that clear?'