"What do you mean safe?"
"I don't know," Kling said, and shrugged. "He says his office is downtown, so I figure he knows people down there. So up here would be safe. He may even live downtown, for all we know. So up here would be safe from his wife, too. I figure he's married, don't you?"
"Where do you see anything about that?"
"I don't. But if he's single and he lives downtown . . ."
"There's nothing there that says he lives downtown."
"How about him taking a cab when he leaves late at night?"
"That doesn't mean he's going downtown."
"All right, forget downtown. But if he isn't married, then why's he keeping a girl anyplace? Why don't they just live together?"
"Well. . . that's a point, yeah."
"So he's this old married guy keeping this young girl in a fancy apartment till he can get her an even fancier one."
"Is 'Phil' another restaurant?"
"Phil? I don't know any restaurant named Phil."
"It says here 'Arthur at Phil, eight p.m.'"
"When was that?"
"Last Wednesday night."
"Maybe he's a friend of theirs. Phil."
"Maybe."
"You know how much the rent on this joint comes to each month?" Kling said, looking up from the checkbook.
"How much?"
"Twenty-four hundred bucks."
"Come on, Bert."
"I'm serious. Here are the stubs. The checks are made out to somebody named Phyllis Brackett, for twenty-four hundred
23
r
a shot, and they're marked Rental. Rental March, Rental April, Rental May, and so on. Twenty-four hundred smackers, Artie."
"And he's trying to find her a better place, huh?"
"Must be a rich old geezer."
"Here he is again," Brown said, tapping the calendar with his ringer. "'Arthur here, nine p.m.'"
"When?"
"Monday."
"Day before she caught it."
"I wonder if he spent the night."
"No, what he does is take a taxi home to his beloved wife."
"We don't know for sure that he's married," Brown said.
"Got to be," Kling said. "And rich. I'm clocking five-thousand-dollar deposits every month on the first of the month. Here, take a look," he said, and handed Brown the checkbook. Brown began leafing through it. Sure enough, there were deposits listed for the first of every month, each for an even five thousand dollars.
"Probably won't help us," Brown said. "His letter . . ."
"Cash, I know," Kling said.
"Even if those deposits were checks, we'd need a court order to get copies of them."
"Might be worth it."
"I'll ask the loot. What was that woman's name again?"
"Brackett. Phyllis Brackett. With a double Ton the end."
"Take a look at this," Brown said, and handed Kling the calendar.
In the square for Monday, the ninth of July, Susan had scrawled the name Tommy!!!!
"Four exclamation points," Kling said. "Must've been urgent."
"Let's see what we've got," Brown said, and picked up a spiral book bound in mottled black plastic, Susan Brauer's personal directory.
The only possible listing they found for anyone named Tommy was one under the letter M: Thomas Mott Antiques. 24
Brown copied down the address and phone number and then leafed back to the pages following the letter B. There was a listing for a Phyllis Brackett at 274 Sounder Avenue. A telephone number was written in below the address. He copied both down, and then they read through the calendar and the directory and the checkbook yet another time, making notes, jotting down names, dates, and possible places Susan Brauer might have visited with the elusive Arthur Somebody during the weeks and days before her murder.
They went through every drawer in the desk and then they turned over the trash basket under the desk and sorted through all the scraps of paper and assorted debris that tumbled out onto the carpet. They spread newspapers on the kitchen floor and went through all the garbage in the pail under the sink. They could find nothing that gave them a last name for the man who was paying the rent on this apartment.
In Susan's bedroom closet, they found a full-length mink coat and a fox jacket . . .
"He's getting richer and richer by the minute," Kling said.
. . . three dozen pairs of shoes . . .
"Imelda Marcos here," Brown said.
. . . eighteen dresses with labels like Adolfo, Chanel, Calvin Klein, Christian Dior . . .
"I wonder what his wife wears," Kling said.
. . . three Louis Vuitton suitcases . . .
"Planning a trip?" Brown said.
. . . and a steel lockbox.
Brown picked the lock in thirty seconds flat.
Insjde the box, there was twelve thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.
The doorman was a dust-colored man with a thin mustache under his nose. He was wearing a gray uniform with red trim and a peaked gray hat with red piping, and he spoke with an almost indecipherable accent they guessed was Middle Eastern. It took them ten minutes to learn that he had been on duty from four p.m. to midnight last night. Now what they
25
wanted to know was whether or not he'd sent anyone up to Miss Brauer's apartment.
"Dunn remembah," he said.
"The penthouse apartment," Kling said. "There's only one penthouse apartment, did you send anybody up there last night?"
"Dunn remembah," he said again.
"Anybody at all go up there?" Brown asked. "A whiskey delivery, anything like that?"
He was thinking about the martinis.
The doorman shook his head.
"Peckage all the time," he said.
"Package, is that what you're saying?"
"Peckage, yes."
"People delivering packages?"
"Yes, all the time."
"But this didn't have to be a delivery," Kling said. "It could've been anyone going up there to the penthouse. Do you remember anyone going up there? Did you buzz Miss Brauer to tell her anyone wanted to come up?"
"Dunn remembah," he said. "Peckage all the time."
Brown wanted to smack him in the mouth.
"Look," he said, "a girl was killed upstairs, and you were on duty during the time she was killed. So did you let anyone in? Did you send anyone upstairs?"
"Dunn remembah."
"Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around the building?"
The doorman looked puzzled.
"Suspicious," Kling said.
"Someone who didn't look as if he belonged here," Brown explained.
"Nobody," the doorman said.
When finally they quit, it felt as if they'd been talking to him for a day and a half. But it was only a little after three o'clock.
26
274 Sounder was a brownstone on a street bordered by trees in full summer leaf. It had taken them close to an hour in heavy traffic to drive from the penthouse apartment on Silvermine Oval all the way down here to the lower end of Isola, and they did not ring Phyllis Bracken's doorbell until almost four o'clock that afternoon.
Mrs Brackett was a woman in her early fifties, they guessed, allowing her hair to go gray, wearing no makeup, and looking tall and slender and attractive in a wide blue skirt, thong sandals, a sleeveless white blouse, and a string of bright red beads. They had called before coming, and not only was she expecting them, she had also made a pitcher of cold lemonade in anticipation of their arrival. Brown and Kling almost kissed her sandaled feet; both men were hot and sticky and utterly exhausted.
They sat in a kitchen shaded by a backyard maple. Two children were playing in a rubber wading pool under the tree. Mrs Brackett explained that they were her grandchildren. Her daughter and her son-in-law were on vacation, and she was baby-sitting the two little blonde girls who were splashing merrily away outside the picture window.
Brown told her why they were there.
"Yes," she said at once.
"You were renting the apartment to Susan Brauer."