“You look kind of pale, honey,” the blonde said.
“What? Oh, yes. I guess I do.”
“Go out and have some of that whiskey. Put the color back into your cheeks.” She rose suddenly, looked at herself in the mirror, tucked a stray strand of hair back into place, and then said, “There, it’s all yours. I’ve got to see John.” She walked into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her.
Christine opened her purse, took out a comb, and began combing her hair. She did look pale. She’d better wash her face. God, that poor man lying in the path.
The bathroom door opened. “Well, so long, dear,” the blonde said. She walked to the dressing table, snatched a purse from its top, and breezed out of the bedroom.
Apparently, she had not noticed that the purse she’d taken was Christine’s.
Nor did Christine, in her agitated state, notice the error either.
Peering over the window sill, the man in the attic room of Birnbaum’s empty house saw Hawes glance up at the window and then glance up at it again. Quickly, he ducked below the sill.
He saw me, he thought.
He saw the rifle.
Now what?
Goddamnit, she knows she’s supposed to keep anyone away from this house! Where the hell is she? Why isn’t she doing what she’s supposed to be doing?
He waited, listening.
He could hear the steady crunch of heavy feet across the lawn behind the house. Cautiously, he crawled on his hands and knees to the left of the window, and then stood up. He backed away from the window. From where he stood, he could not be seen from outside, but he had a clear view of the lawn and — yes, that man was heading for the house, walking across the lawn at a brisk clip.
What do I do? he wondered.
He listened.
The man was coming around the side of the house. He heard footsteps on the slate walk there, and then on the steps leading to the front porch, and then clomping across the porch to stop at the front door. There was no knock. Stealthily, the front door eased open, creaking on its hinges.
Silence.
In the attic room, the sniper waited. He could hear the footsteps again, carefully, quietly advancing through the silent house, toward the steps, hesitating on each tread, each creaking step bringing the intruder closer and closer to the attic room. Quickly, the sniper went to the door and stood just inside it. Quickly, he grasped the rifle by its barrel.
There were cautious footsteps in the corridor outside now.
He held his breath and waited.
The doorknob twisted almost imperceptibly.
The sniper swung the rifle back over his shoulder like a ball bat.
Gun in hand, Cotton Hawes kicked open the door to the attic, and the rifle moved in a sudden blurring arc, the butt catching him on the side of his face and knocking him senseless to the floor.
Chapter 10
The stench of cordite still hung in the air of the small room across the street from Jody Lewis’s photography shop. Donald Pullen opened the door with his key and then said, “Phew! What’s that stink?”
“Cordite,” Meyer said immediately. The smell was as familiar to him as the scent of his wife, though not nearly so pleasant. “Someone fired a gun in here, Bob.”
“Yeah,” O’Brien said, and immediately began looking for the spent shell casing.
Meyer went to the window. “Nice view of the photography shop,” he said. He bent suddenly. “Here it is, Bob.” He picked up the shell casing.
“Here’s another one,” O’Brien said. He carried the casing to Meyer.
“Same gun,” Meyer said. “A rifle.”
“Somebody fired a rifle in this room?” Pullen asked incredulously.
“It looks that way,” Meyer said.
“Why? Why would anybody fire a rifle in a small room like this?”
“A good guess might be in order to hit somebody going in or coming out of that photography shop across the street. You said Miss Blake specifically requested an apartment near the photography shop, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes! That’s amazing,” Pullen said. “That certainly is amazing deduction.”
“Elementary,” Meyer said grandly, and Bob O’Brien stifled a laugh. “Let’s look around, Bob. A rifle doesn’t particularly strike me as the kind of weapon a woman would choose. What do you think?”
“I never think on Sundays,” O’Brien said, but he began looking over the apartment. The place had a look of impermanence to it. There was a bed with brass bedstead against one wall, a night-table standing alongside it. A basin and a pitcher of water rested on the table. A floor lamp stood behind a worn easy chair in one corner of the room. A curtained closet was on the wall opposite the window. Beside that was the door leading to a tiny bathroom. O’Brien went into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. It was empty. He pulled back the curtain on the closet and looked at the empty hangers.
“Whoever was here was traveling light,” he remarked.
“Any signs of a woman?” Meyer said. “Lipstick tissues? Bobby pins? Long hairs?”
“Not even a sign of a human,” O’Brien said. “Wait a minute, here’s something.” He lifted an ash tray from the night table. “A cigar butt. Know any dames who smoke cigars?”
“Anne Baxter and Hermione Gingold,” Meyer said. “Think they also fire rifles?”
“Maybe. But most actresses don’t perform on Sundays. Besides, it would never be my luck to catch a case involving celebrities.”
“I had a celebrity once,” Meyer said. “A singer. It’s a shame I was a married man at the time.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Meyer said, and he shrugged eloquently.
“It certainly is fascinating to watch you fellows at work,” Pullen said.
“It beats television six ways from the middle,” O’Brien said. “Most people think of cops as everyday workingmen who go to a musty office and type up reports in triplicate and do a lot of legwork all over the city. Just ordinary guys, you understand? Guys with wives and families. Guys like you and me, Mr. Pullen.”
“Yes?” Pullen said.
“Sure. That’s the influence of television. Actually, a detective is a pretty glamorous character. Ain’t that right, Meyer?”
“Absolutely,” Meyer said, sniffing the cigar butt.
“He’s all the time getting involved with gorgeous blondes in slinky negligees. Ain’t that right, Meyer?”
“Absolutely,” Meyer said. The cigar was a White Owl. He made a mental note of it.
“He leads a life of gay adventurous excitement,” O’Brien said. “When he ain’t drinking in some very swank bar, he is out driving in a Cadillac convertible with the top down and the blonde’s knees up on the seat. Boy, what a life! I’m telling you, Mr. Pullen, detective work ain’t all routine.”
“It sounds much more interesting than real estate,” Pullen said.
“Oh, it is, it is. And the salary is fantastic.” He winked. “Not to mention the graft. Mr. Pullen, don’t believe what you see on television. Cops, Mr. Pullen, are not dull boobs.”