The third-floor hall was a duplicate of the one below. Again Purley and I posted ourselves opposite the door, and Loftus came with Bootsy and knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder, and pretty soon the door opened to a two-inch crack, and a squeaky voice came through.
“You’ve got the dog.”
“Right here,” Loftus told him.
“Are you there, Sergeant?”
“Right here,” Purley answered.
“I told you that dog don’t like me. Once at a party at Phil Kampf’s-I told you. I didn’t mean to hurt it, but it thought I did. What are you trying to do, frame me?”
“Open the door. The dog’s on a leash.”
“I won’t! I told you I wouldn’t!”
Purley moved. His arm, out stiff, went over Loftus’s shoulder, and his palm met the door and kept going. The door hesitated an instant and then swung open. Standing there, holding to its edge, was a skinny individual in red-and-green-striped pajamas. The dog let out a low growl and backed up a little.
“We’re making the rounds, Mr. Aland,” Purley said, “and we couldn’t leave you out. Now you can go back to sleep. As for trying to frame you-”
He stopped because the door shut.
“You didn’t tell me,” Loftus complained, “that Aland had already fixed it for a reaction.”
“No, I thought I’d wait and see. One to go.” He headed for the stairs.
The top-floor hall had had someone’s personal attention. It was no bigger than the others, but it had a nice clean tan-colored runner, and the walls were painted the same shade and sported a few small pictures. Purley went to the rear door instead of the front, and we made room for Loftus and Bootsy by flattening against the wall. When Loftus knocked footsteps responded at once, approaching the door, and it swung wide open. This was the painter, Ross Chaffee, and he was dressed for it, in an old brown smock. He was by far the handsomest of the tenants, tall, erect, with artistic wavy dark hair and features he must have enjoyed looking at.
I had ample time to enjoy them too as he stood smiling at us, completely at ease, obeying Purley’s prior instructions not to speak. Bootsy was also at ease. When it became quite clear that no blood was going to be shed, Purley asked, “You know the dog, don’t you, Mr. Chaffee?”
“Certainly. He’s a beautiful animal.”
“Pat him.”
“With pleasure.” He bent gracefully. “Bootsy, do you know your master’s gone?” He scratched behind the black ears. “Gone forever, Bootsy, and that’s too bad.” He straightened. “Anything else? I’m working. I like the morning light.”
“That’s all, thanks.” Purley turned to go, and I let Loftus and Bootsy by before following. On the way down the three flights no one had any remarks.
As we hit the level of the lower hall Victor Talento’s door opened, and he emerged and spoke. “The District Attorney’s office phoned. Are you through with me? They want me down there.”
“We’re through,” Purley rumbled. “We can run you down.”
Talento said that would be fine and he would be ready in a minute. Purley told Loftus to give me Bootsy, and he handed me the leash.
“I am willing,” I said helpfully, “to give you a detailed analysis of the dog’s conduct. It will take about a week.”
“Go to hell,” Purley growled, “and take the goddam dog along.”
I departed. Outside the morning was still fine. The presence of two PD cars in front of the scene of a murder had attracted a small gathering, and Bootsy and I were objects of interest as we appeared and started off. We both ignored the stares. We moseyed along, in no hurry, stopping now and then to give Bootsy a chance to inspect something if he felt inclined. At the fourth or fifth stop, more than a block away, I saw the quartet leaving number 29. Stebbins and Talento took one car and Loftus and the colleague the other, and they rolled off.
I shortened up on Bootsy a little, walked him west until an empty taxi appeared, stopped it and got in, took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, and handed it to the hackie.
“Thanks,” he said with feeling. “For what, down payment on the cab?”
“You’ll earn it, brother,” I assured him. “Is there somewhere within a block or so of Arbor and Court where you can park for anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours?”
“Not three hours for a finif.”
“Of course not.” I got another five and gave it to him. “I doubt if it will be that long.”
“There’s a parking lot not too far. On the street without a passenger I’ll be solicited.”
“You’ll have a passenger-the dog. I prefer the street. He’s a nice dog. When I return I’ll be reasonable. Let’s see what we can find.”
He pulled the lever and we moved. There are darned few legal parking spaces in all Manhattan at that time of day, and we cruised around several corners before we found one, on Court Street two blocks from Arbor. He backed into it and I got out, leaving the windows down three inches. I told him I’d be back when he saw me, and headed south, turning right at the second corner.
There was no police car at 29 Arbor, and no gathering. That was satisfactory. Entering the vestibule, I pushed the button under Meegan and put my hand on the knob. No click. Pushing twice more and still getting no response, I tried Aland’s button, and that worked. After a short wait the click came, and I shoved the door open, entered, mounted two flights, went to the door, and knocked with authority.
The squeaky voice came through. “Who is it?”
“Goodwin. I was just here with the others. I haven’t got the dog. Open up.”
The door swung slowly to a crack, and then wider. Jerome Aland was still in his gaudy pajamas. “For God’s sake,” he squeaked, “what do you want now? I need some sleep!”
I didn’t apologize. “I was going to ask you some questions when I was here before,” I told him, “but the dog complicated it. It won’t take long.” Since he wasn’t polite enough to move aside, I had to brush him, skinny as he was, as I went in. “Which way?”
He slid past me, and I followed him across to chairs. They were the kind of chairs that made Jewel Jones hate furnished apartments, and the rest of the furniture didn’t help any. He sat on the edge of one and demanded, “All right, what?”
It was a little tricky. Since he was assuming I was one of the Homicide personnel, it wouldn’t do for me to know either too much or too little. It would be risky to mention Jewel Jones, because the cops might not have got around to her at all.
“I’m checking some points,” I told him. “How long has Richard Meegan occupied the apartment below you?”
“Hell, I’ve told you that a dozen times.”
“Not me. I said I’m checking. How long?”
“Nine days. He took it a week ago Tuesday.”
“Who was the previous tenant? Just before him.”
“There wasn’t any. It was empty.”
“Empty ever since you’ve been here?”
“No, I’ve told you, a girl had it, but she moved out about three months ago. Her name is Jewel Jones, and she’s a fine artist, and she got me my job at the night club where I work now.” His mouth worked. “I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to make it nasty, and you’re trying to catch me getting my facts twisted. Bringing that dog here to growl at me-can I help it if I don’t like dogs?”