I returned to the office.
Wolfe leaned back. “We have only ten minutes until lunch. Now this afternoon, for you and Saul…”
CHAPTER Fifteen
The locksmith soaked me $8.80 for eleven keys. That was about double the market, but I didn't bother to squawk because I knew why: he was still collecting for a kind of a lie he had told a homicide dick six years ago at my suggestion. I think he figured that he and I were fellow crooks and therefore should divvy.
Even with keys it might have taken a little manoeuvring if Louis Rony had lived in an apartment house with a doorman and elevator man, but as it was there was nothing to it. The address on East Thirty-seventh Street was an old five-storey building that had been done over in good style, and in the downstairs vestibule was a row of mail-boxes, push buttons, and perforated circles for reception on the speaking tube. Rony's name was at the right end, which meant the top floor.
The first key I tried was the right one, and Saul and I entered, went to the self-service elevator, and pushed the button marked 5. It was the best kind of set-up for an able young man with a future like Rony, who had probably had visitors of all kinds at all hours.
Upstairs it was the second key I tried that worked. Feeling that I was the host, in a way, I held the door open for Saul to precede me and then followed him in.
We were at the centre of a hall, not wide and not very long. Turning right, towards the street front, we stepped into a fairly large room with modern furniture that matched, bright-coloured rugs that had been cleaned not long ago, splashy coloured pictures on the walls, a good supply of books, and a fireplace.
“Pretty nice,” Saul remarked, sending his eyes around. One difference between Saul and me is that I sometimes have to look twice at a thing to be sure I'll never lose it, but once will always do for him.
“Yeah,” I agreed, putting my brief-case on a chair. “I understand the tenant has given it up, so maybe you could rent it.” I got the rubber gloves from the suitcase and handed him a pair. He started putting them on.
“It's too bad,” he said, “you didn't keep that membership card Sunday night when you had your hands on it. It would have saved trouble. That's what we want, is it?” “It's our favourite.” I began on the second glove. “We would buy anything that looks interesting, but we'd love a souvenir of the American Communist Party. The best bet is a safe of some kind, but we won't hop around.” I motioned to the left. “You take that side.” It's a pleasure to work with Saul because I can concentrate completely on my part and pay no attention to him. We both like a searching job, when it's not the kind where you have to turn couches upside down or use a magnifying glass, because when you're through you've got a plain final answer, yes or no. For that room, on which we spent a good hour, it was no. Not only was there no membership certificate, there was nothing at all that was worth taking home to Wolfe. The only thing resembling a safe was a lock bound box, which one of the keys fitted, in a drawer of the desk, and all it contained was a bottle of fine liqueur Scotch, McCrae's, half full. Apparently that was the one item he didn't care to share with the cleaning woman. We left the most tedious part, flipping through the books, to the last, and did it together. There was nothing in any of them but pages.
“This bird trusted nobody,” Saul complained.
In our next objective, the bedroom, which was about half the size of the front room, Saul darted a glance around and said, “Thank God, no books.” I agreed heartily. “We ought to always bring a boy along for it. Flipping through books is a hell of a way to earn a living for grown-ups.” The bedroom didn't take as long, but it produced as little. The further we went the more convinced I got that Rony had either never had a secret of any kind, or had had so many dangerous ones that no cut and dried precautions would do, and in view of what had happened to the plant rooms the choice was easy. By the time we finished with the kitchenette, which was about the size of Wolfe's elevator, and the bathroom, which was much larger and spick-and-span, the bottle of Scotch locked in the bond box, hid from the cleaning woman, struck me as pathetic-the one secret innocent enough to let into his home.
Thinking that the notion showed how broad-minded I was, having that kind of a feeling even for a grade A bastard like Rony, I thought I should tell Saul about it. The gloves were back in the brief-case and the brief-case under my arm, and we were in the hall, headed for the door, ready to leave. I never got the notion fully explained to Saul on account of an interruption. I was just reaching for the door-knob, using my handkerchief, when the sound of the elevator came, stopping at that floor, and then its door opening. There was no question as to which apartment someone was headed for because there was only one to a floor.
There were steps outside, and the sound of a key being inserted in the lock, but by the time it was turned and the door opened Saul and I were in the bathroom, with its door closed to leave no crack, but unlatched.
A voice said, not too loud, “Anybody here?” It was Jimmy Sperling.
Another voice said, lower but with no sign of a tremble in it, “Are you sure this is it?” It was Jimmy's mother.
“Of course it is,” Jimmy said rudely. It was the rudeness of a guy scared absolutely stiff. “It's the fifth floor. Come on, we can't just stand here.” Steps went to the front, to the living-room. I whispered to Saul to tell him who they were, and added, “If they came after something they're welcome to anything they find.” I opened the door to a half-inch crack, and we stood and listened. They were talking, and, judging from other sounds, they weren't anything like as methodical and efficient as Saul and I had been. One of them dropped a drawer on the floor, and a little later something else hit that sounded more like a picture.
Still later it must have been a book, and that was too much for me. If Saul and I hadn't been so thorough it might have been worth while to wait it out, on the chance that they might find what they were after and we could ask them to show us before they left; but to stand there and let them waste their time going through those books when we had just flipped every one of them-it was too damn silly. So I opened the bathroom door, walked down the hall into the living-room, and greeted them.
“Hello there!” Some day I'll learn. I thought I had Jimmy pretty well tagged. I have a rule never to travel around on homicide business without a shoulder holster, but my opinion of Jimmy was such that I didn't bother to transfer the gun to my pocket or hand. However, I have read about mothers protecting their young, and have also run across it now and then, and I might at least have been more alert Not that,a gun in my hand would have helped any unless I had been willing to slam it against her skull. Happening to be near the arch when I entered, she had only a couple of yards to come, just what she needed to get momentum… She came at me like a hurricane, her hands straight for my face, screeching at the top of her voice, “Run run run!” It didn't make any sense, but a woman in that condition never does. Even if I had been alone, and she had been able to keep me busy enough long enough for her son to make a getaway, what of it? Since I was neither a killer nor a cop, my only threat was the discovery that Jimmy was there, and since I had already seen him she couldn't peel that off of me no matter how long her fingernails were.
However, she tried, and her first wild rush got her in so close that she actually reached my face. Feeling the stinging little streak of one of her nails, I stiff-armed her out of range, and would merely have kept her off that way if it hadn't been for Jimmy, who had been at the other side of the room when I entered. Instead of dashing in to support Mom's attack, he was standing there by the table pointing a gun. At the sight of the gun, Saul, following me in, had stopped just inside the arch to think it over, and I didn't blame him, for Jimmy's right hand, which held the gun, was anything but steady, which meant there was no way of telling what might happen next.