“Oh, yes, sir.”
Sands hung up. Shivering slightly he turned on the light and took off his pajamas. He dressed quickly, avoiding the sight of his own body because its frailty annoyed him. There were no mirrors in his apartment except the small shaving mirror in the bathroom, and even when he shaved he did not look at his face, only the patch of it he happened to be shaving. He would have preferred to be without face or body, if other people would conform. Since this was impossible he did the next best thing and ignored his possession of both to such an extent that he could not have described himself accurately on a police bulletin. He knew roughly that he was middle-sized and middle-aged but appeared taller because he was thin, and older, because he was constantly tired.
The tiredness was a nuisance in several ways. The wives of the other policemen thought Sands should have someone to look after him. They invited him frequently for meals and gave him ties for Christmas. Sands always wore the ties and in return got more ties.
He picked one at random off the rack, remembering instantly that it had been given to him last Christmas by Mrs. Lasky, wrapped in blue tissue paper with silver stars and fat angels of peace and good will pasted over the surface. Mauve was Mrs. Lasky’s favorite color, and freely striped with deep red she found it irresistible. Inspector Lasky had died last spring, not from Mrs. Lasky’s taste in ties, but from a bullet in his chest. Lasky had always handled the big robbery cases in the city and no one had been found to take his place. So now even Sands, who preferred more intellectual crimes, was sometimes called in to take charge of a robbery. He had just spent half the night at a small tavern in West Toronto.
The tavern-keeper himself had not been anxious to call the police, since the attempted robbery had taken place long after the legal closing hour. But one of the customers had called, and eventually Sands had gone to bed thinking of the fingerprints on the glasses that matched the fingerprints of an ex-convict who had been honest, or discreet, for ten years. Though Murillo had been young when convicted of peddling marihuana and his sentence had been light, he was listed as potentially dangerous because he was an addict and carried a knife.
Hardly dangerous any longer, Sands thought knotting his tie. Stupid enough to sit around drinking and scattering his fingerprints all over the place. The last entry on Murillo’s card had been made five years ago and stated that he was living with a singer, Mamie Rosen, and had no visible means of support.
Sands went into the kitchen and plugged in the coffee percolator. While he was waiting he wrote some memos in the small book he always carried in his vest pocket: “Get Higgins to pick up Tony Murillo. See Mamie Rosen. Insist D’Arcy’s adenoids.”
He drank his coffee, looking at the last note, and then stroked it out reluctantly. It was surprising how many large irritations a man could tolerate, yet find himself overwhelmed by a pair of whistling adenoids.
He rinsed out the coffee cup and began to wonder about the girl who had committed suicide at 1020 St. Clair.
“Detective-Inspector Sands,” he told the butler. His voice was a little surer when he used his official title, as if the mere placing of himself within a group had strengthened his own identity.
“Yes, sir,” Maurice said. “Will you come in, sir?”
“I believe I will,” Sands said. He had a trick of sounding slightly surprised which made his listeners think uneasily that they had said something very obvious or stupid.
Flushing slightly, Maurice stepped back from the door and Sands came inside.
“Doctor still here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where’s a telephone?”
Maurice fixed his eyes on the red and mauve tie and said after a pause, “In the kitchen. This way, sir.”
Sands laid his hat and coat carefully on the table reserved for calling cards and followed Maurice down the hall, smiling faintly at Maurice’s back.
Though the lights were all turned on the house seemed to be deserted, the kitchen shining and spotless as if the cook had cleaned up and vanished without leaving even a footprint on the floor.
“Nice floor,” he said. “What is it?”
“Red concrete,” Maurice said coldly.
“Oh. Hello, Sylvia. Tom up yet? Rout him out, will you, and tell him to read my report at headquarters and pick up Tony Murillo. Murillo will have to be identified so Tom had better prepare a line-up. Thanks.”
He hung up, dialed another number. “D’Arcy? Sands. I’m at St. Clair. Send the usual right away. No, very quiet.”
Maurice said, “The... the body is upstairs.”
“What’s the name?”
“Heath, Miss Kelsey Heath.”
“Heath?” Sands frowned. “Wasn’t there something a few years ago?”
“An accident, sir. Miss Kelsey was in an accident. She was blinded.”
“All right. Let’s go up. What’s your name?”
“Maurice King.”
“All right.”
The second floor was deserted like the first, and all the doors were shut. Behind one of them a man was talking in a low nervous rumble, but there were no sounds of excitement or grief.
“This is the room,” Maurice said.
“Thanks. Anyone touch the knob?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to wait.”
Maurice muttered something under his breath and walked unsteadily away from the door. Sands went in alone. His movements were brisk as if he were eager to get started. But the briskness was forced. This was the moment he dreaded, this first sight of a body, the staring eyes, the sagging mouth, the stiffening limbs.
There was a trail of blood on the blue carpet widening at the bed. Sands stepped across it and touched Kelsey’s forehead lightly. It was very cold. He brushed his hand on his coat and moved back from the bed.
The hole in the girl’s breast was wide and deep, the skin jagged as if the person who thrust the knife there could not thrust deeply enough to satisfy his violence and had to rip the skin. A powerful hand had held the knife, a hand driven by hate or rage.
No suicide certainly. It was the wrong weapon and the wrong place. Knives weren’t used for suicide by women, and even men used them to cut their wrists or throats and did not attempt to thrust a knife past the heavy bone that protected the heart. And this girl’s hands were thin and weak-looking and bore no bloodstains. Besides, her very blindness would have made her hand uncertain, and the hand that held the knife had not been uncertain.
Sands walked back to the door, looked around the room again. After a time he moved toward the bureau looking intently at a small silver box which lay on its top. There were several short scratches around the lock. Covering his hand with a handkerchief Sands lifted the lid. The lock had been forced but the box was still crammed carelessly with jewels. A forced lock but the jewels still there. For an instant he had been reminded of something, something recent and puzzling. But it slipped his mind. A new fact was jabbing at his consciousness. It was the smell in the room.
A sick, sweet, cloying smell, more pungent than the odor of fresh blood. A drug, perhaps. Had the girl been sick? If she had, perhaps the lights had been left on in the room. The sureness of the blow argued for that. An easy time the murderer had had — the lights on, and the girl sleeping and blind, without even the frail defense of eyes and ears.
He opened the door into the hall and as he stepped out he caught a glimpse of a woman disappearing around the bend at the back of the hall. Her footsteps were inaudible but he heard the creak of a board in the stairs.
He tensed himself to run after her, had already taken a step forward before he caught himself up. Then he stood quietly, smiling to himself. I’m like a damn dog, he thought, I can’t see anything running away without wanting to run after it.