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“It’s not a good idea to take buses when you’re wanted for homicide. It’s awfully public.”
“I suppose we’ll get a cab sooner or later.”
I took the suitcase in one hand and her arm in the other. “The hell with that,” I said. “We’ll take a car.”
The Pontiac was right where I’d left it. Sometimes the tow-truck division lets things slide for a while, and this time the Pontiac ’s owner was the beneficiary of their lapse. I popped the door on the passenger’s side, let Carolyn in, and took a ticket from underneath the windshield wiper while she leaned across the seat to unlatch the door for me.
“See?” someone said. “You got a ticket. Did I tell you you’d get a ticket?”
I didn’t recognize the man at first. Then I saw the brindle boxer at the end of the leash he was holding.
“Sooner or later,” he told me, “they’ll tow you away. Then what will you do?”
“Get another car,” I said.
He shook his head, tugged impatiently at the dog’s leash. “Come on, Max,” he said. “Some people, you can’t tell them a thing.”
I got into the car, set about jumping the ignition. Carolyn watched the process fascinated, and it wasn’t until we pulled away from the curb that she asked who the man was and what he had wanted.
“He wanted to be helpful,” I said, “but all in all he’s a pest. The dog’s all right, though. His name is Max. The dog, I mean.”
“He looks okay,” she said, “but he’d probably be murder to wash.”
I left the Pontiac in a bus stop around the corner from where we were going. Carolyn said it might get towed and I said I didn’t care if it did. I got tools and accessories from the suitcase, then left the case and the clothes it contained on the back seat of the Pontiac.
“Suppose they tow the car,” she said, “and suppose they identify the clothing from laundry marks. Then they’ll know you were here, and-”
“You’ve been watching too much television,” I said. “When they tow cars they take them over to that pier on the Hudson and wait for the owner to turn up. They don’t check the contents. You could have a dead body in the trunk and they’d never know.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that,” she said.
“There’s nothing in the trunk.”
“How do you know for sure?”
We went around the corner. No one seemed to be keeping an eye on the elegant little brownstone. A woman stood in the bay window on the parlor floor, watering the plants with a long-spouted watering can. The can was gleaming copper, the plants were all a lush green, and the whole scene was one of upper-middle-class domestic tranquillity. Outside, watching this and getting rained on, I felt like a street urchin in a Victorian novel.
I looked up. There were lighted windows on the third and fourth floors, but they didn’t tell me anything. The apartments that interested me were at the rear of the building.
We entered the vestibule. “You don’t have to come,” I said.
“Ring the bell, Bern.”
“I’m serious. You could wait in the car.”
“Wonderful. I can play it safe by sitting in a stolen car parked at a bus stop. Why don’t I just wait in the subway? I could cling to the third rail for security.”
“What you could do is spend the next half-hour in the bar on the corner. Suppose we walk into an apartment full of cops?”
“Ring the bell, Bernie.”
“It’s just that I hate to see you walk into trouble.”
“So do I, but let’s play the hand out as dealt, huh? I’ll be with the two of them so they can’t get cute while you’re downstairs. We worked it out before, Bern, and it made sense then and it still makes sense now. You want to know something? It’s probably dangerous for us to spend the next six hours arguing in the vestibule, if you’re so concerned with what’s dangerous and what’s not, so why don’t you ring their bell and get it over with?”
First, though, I rang the bell marked Porlock. I poked it three times, waited half a minute, then gave it another healthy tickle. I didn’t really expect a response and I was happy not to get one. My finger moved from the Porlock bell to the one marked Bli
“Darn,” Carolyn said. I looked at her. “Well, I thought I’d get to watch you pick it,” she said. “That’s all.”
We went up the stairs and stopped at the third floor long enough to peek at the door of 3-D. As I’d figured it, the cops had sealed it, and the door was really plastered with official-looking material. I could have opened it with a scout knife, but I couldn’t have done so without destroying the seals and making it obvious that I’d been there.
Instead, we went up another flight. The door of 4-C was closed. Carolyn and I looked at each other. Then I reached out a hand and knocked.
The door opened. Arthur Bli
They made a cute couple. They were both about five-six, both as roly-poly as panda bears. Both had curly dark-brown hair, although he’d lost most of his in the front. She was wearing a forest-green pants suit in basic polyester. He wore the trousers and vest of a gray glen-plaid business suit. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and his tie was loosened for comfort. She poured coffee and pushed Scottish shortbread at us. He told us, over and over again, what a relief it was to see us.
“Because I told Gert, suppose it’s a setup? Suppose it’s the insurance company ru
“And what I figured,” Gert said, “is why would you be coming here, anyway? ‘He wants to get rid of witnesses,’ I told Artie. ‘Remember, he already killed once.’ ”
“What I said is what did we ever witness? I told her, I said forget all that. Just hope it’s the burglar, I told her. All we need is some insurance snoop. You don’t care for the shortbread, young lady?”
“It’s delicious,” Carolyn said. “And Bernie never killed anybody, Mrs. Bli
“Call me Gert, honey.”
“He never killed anyone, Gert.”
“I’m sure of it, honey. Meeting him, seeing the two of you, my mind’s a hundred percent at ease.”
“He was framed, Gert. That’s why we’re here. To find out who really killed Madeleine Porlock.”
“If we knew,” Arthur Bli
“You lived in the same building with her. You must have known something about her.”
The Bli
“Like Mr. Mboka,” Artie said.
“In 3-C,” Gert said. “He’s African, you see, and he works at the U.N. Somebody said he was a translator.”
“Plays the drums,” Artie said.
“We don’t know that, Artie. He either plays the drums or he plays recordings of drums.”
“Same difference.”
“But we haven’t spoken to him about it because we thought it might be religious and we didn’t want to interfere.”
“Plus Gert here thinks he’s a ca
“I don’t think he’s a ca