‘And he didn’t hear the shot?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look here, Alma,’ I said. ‘Do you suppose it could have been Bleatie who—’
‘What would he be doing in my room?’ she asked.
I couldn’t think of any answer I wanted to put in words, so I didn’t try to give one. I said, ‘We’ll find the manager, and—’ I broke off and crowded her back into the telephone booth as a big car pulled up in front of the apartment house. ‘Here comes someone now,’ I said. ‘I can mooch a coin and call police headquarters. I’d rather do that than notify the manager.’
‘I have some money in my purse if we can get the door of the apartment open,’ Alma Hunter said.
‘Well, we’ll see who this is and—’
I could see the vague, indistinct form of a driver at the wheel of the big car. A girl was between him and me, and she almost smothered him saying good night. He didn’t come around to open the car door for her or see her into the apartment. But as soon as she disentangled herself and opened the door of the car, he slid away from the curb and out into the night. I started toward the door and stopped. The woman was taking a latchkey from her purse. As she walked up to the door, I saw her face. It was Sandra Birks.
I walked back to the telephone booth and said, ‘Here comes Sandra now. You can go up with her. Tell me, Alma, how did it happen no one heard the shot?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you don’t think they did?’
‘No. At any rate, there hasn’t been anything done about it.’
Sandra Birks came in, walking with quick, determined little steps. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were starry. She seemed to be walking on air. I stepped out from behind the little counter which ran around the desk, and said, ‘Just a minute.’
She caught her breath when she saw me, and then shifted her eyes to stare at Alma in her robe, pajamas, and bare feet.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘If you’ve got a dime,’ I said, ‘we’ll call the police. Alma shot someone in your apartment.’
‘A burglar,’ Alma said, quickly.
‘The same one who—’ Sandra broke off to look at her throat.
Alma nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Where did you get the gun?’
I started to say, ‘I gave it to her,’ but Alma said quickly, ‘It was one I had. I’d had it in Kansas City. I kept it in the bottom of my suitcase.’
Sandra said, ‘We’d better go up and look things over before we—’
‘No, we hadn’t,’ I interrupted. ‘There’s been enough delay already. We call the police.’
Sandra said, ‘What’s the matter? Haven’t you a dime?’
I met her eyes, and said, ‘No.’
She opened her purse, took out a dime and gave it to me. I walked back to the telephone booth. Sandra and Alma stood there by the elevator, talking in low tones; and just then I heard the low wail of a police siren, sounding close at hand. I was just taking the receiver off the hook in the telephone booth when a radio patrol car drew up in front of the door. I started dialing blind, stalling along to keep out of sight. An officer climbed the two stairs, tried the door, and rattled the knob. Sandra walked across and let him in.
I could hear him say through the door to the telephone booth, ‘Someone reported a shot was heard in 419. Do you know anything about it?’
‘I live there,’ Sandra Birks said.
‘Oh, you do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was there a shot?’
‘I just came in.’
‘Who’s this dame?’
‘She lives with me — it was a shot, I guess — she heard it.’
‘Let’s go up.’
He pushed them along with him into the elevator. The door rattled shut, and the elevator started swaying upward. Over the phone I heard the noise of the ringing bell and a sleepy masculine voice said ‘Hello.’ I thought for a moment, then put the receiver back on the hook.
Apparently no one had said anything about me.
I watched the indicator swing upward in an arc until it came to the fourth floor. Then it stopped. I waited a minute or two to see if the elevator was coming back down, and when I saw it wasn’t, jabbed the button. The indicator remained stationary. Evidently, they’d left the door open when they went up. At that hour of the night, there was only one elevator running, and it was an automatic.
It took me a couple of minutes to climb the four flights of stairs and walk down the corridor to apartment 419.
The apartment door was open. I could hear the sound of voices coming from the bedroom on the right. The lights were on. I stepped into the apartment, and looked through the bedroom door. The two women were standing facing the officer.
Alma Hunter, white-lipped, defiant; Sandra Birks, poker-faced. Sprawled on the floor with his arm outstretched, lying on his back, his glazed eyes reflecting the lights from the ceiling, lay Morgan Birks.
The officer asked Alma, ‘Where did you get this gun?’
‘I had it.’
‘When did you buy it?’
‘I didn’t buy it.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘A gentleman friend.’
‘Where? When?’
‘In Kansas City, of course. It was some time ago. I don’t remember how long ago.’
Sandra Birks looked past the officer and saw me. Her eyes narrowed. She raised her hand to her lips, and as she lowered it, flipped the wrist in a signal to go away.
The officer caught either her motion or the expression in her eyes. He whirled and saw me standing there.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked, staring down at the figure on the floor.
Sandra Birks said evenly, ‘I think he has an apartment somewhere on this floor.’
The officer came pushing toward me. ‘You get out,’ he said. ‘This is a homicide. We don’t want a lot of people trooping in. Who are you? What—’
‘Why don’t you put a sign on the door?’ I said. ‘I thought there was some trouble here. You left the door wide open and—’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘On your way, and we’ll close it right now.’
‘Well, don’t get hard about it. I have a perfect right to look in here when the door’s open, and you can’t keep me out. I’m not—’
‘The hell I can’t keep you out,’ he said, and clapped his big hand on my back between my shoulders. He wrinkled my coat up in his fingers to give him a good grip, and shoved. I went out in the hall so fast I had to put up my hand to keep from slamming into the wall on the other side of the corridor. Behind me, the door slammed shut, and I heard the lock click.
Cops are that way. If I’d tried to leave, he’d have dragged me in and given me the third degree. Getting hard and insisting that I had the right to stay, resulted in getting thrown out with no questions asked. He’d proved his point and established the superiority of a police officer over the poor dumb citizen who pays the taxes.
I didn’t know just what had happened, but Sandra Birks’ signal had been enough. I didn’t need to have a brick house fall on me. I walked to the elevator and took it down. My ribs ached every time I breathed, and the shove the officer had given me hadn’t helped any.
The radio patrol car was waiting at the curb. The second officer was seated in it, listening to broadcasts. He was taking notes as I came out, and looked up at me sharply; but the radio was blaring a description of a man wanted for something or other, and he let me go.
I tried to walk casually until I got to the corner, swinging out to the curb once or twice as though looking for a cruising cab. Behind me, I could hear the blare of the police radio as a voice said in a droning monotone, ‘—about thirty-seven or thirty-eight, height five feet ten inches, a hundred and eighty pounds, wearing a gray felt hat-wide black brim-shirt-tie spotted red. When last seen-running-scene-crime—’