Make Room! Make Room!

When he was alone with the body, Andy took the polythene evidence bag from his pocket and worked it down over the iron without touching it, then pulled the weapon free of the skull by holding on to it through the bag, as low down as possible; it came away easily enough and there was only a slow trickle of blood from the wound. He sealed the bag, then took a pillowcase from the bed and dropped the bag and tire iron into this. There would be no complaints now if he carried the bloody iron in the street — and if he worked it right he could get to keep the pillowcase. He spread a sheet over the body before knocking on the bathroom door.

Shirl opened the door a few inches and looked out at him. “I want to talk to you,” he said, then remembered the body on the floor behind him. “Is there another room — ?”

“The living room. I’ll show you.”

She opened the door all the way and came out, once more walking close to the wall without looking down at the floor. Tab was sitting in the hall, and he watched them silently as they passed.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Shirl said. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” She went into the kitchen.

Andy sat on the couch, it was very soft, and put his notepad on his knee. Another air-conditioner hummed in the window and the floor-to-ceiling curtains were closed almost all the way, so that the light was dim and comfortable. The television set was a monster. There were pictures on the walls (they looked like real paintings), books, a dining table and chairs in some kind of red wood. Very nice for someone.

“Do you want a drink?” Shirl called out from the kitchen, holding up a tall glass. “This is vodka.”

“I’m on duty, thanks all the same. Some cold water will do fine.”

She brought the two glasses in on a tray and, instead of handing his glass to him, pressed it against the side of the couch near his hand. When she let go the glass remained there, defying gravity. Andy pulled at it and it came free with a slight tug; he saw that there were rings of metal worked into the glass, so there must be magnets concealed under the fabric. Very elegant. For some reason this a

“I would like to ask you some questions,” he said, making a tick mark on the notepad. “What time did you leave the apartment this morning?”

“Just seven o’clock, that’s when Tab comes on duty. I wanted to do the shopping before it was too hot.”

“Did you lock the door behind you?”

“It’s automatic, it locks itself, there’s no way to leave it open unless you block it with something.”

“Was O’Brien alive when you left?”

She looked up at him angrily. “Of course! He was asleep, snoring. Do you think that I killed him?” The anger in her face turned to pain as she remembered what was lying in the other room; she took a quick gulp from her drink.

Tab’s voice came from the doorway. “When I touched Mr. O’Brien’s body it was still warm. Whoever killed him must have done it just a little while before we came in—”

“Go sit down and don’t come in here again,” Andy said sharply, without turning his head. He took a sip of the ice water and wondered what he was getting excited about. What difference did it make who had polished off Big Mike? It was a public service. The odds were all against this girl having done it. What motive? He looked at her closely and she caught his eye and turned away, pulling her skirt down over her knees as she did.

“What I think doesn’t matter,” he said, but the words didn’t even satisfy him. “Look, Miss Greene, I’m just a cop doing my job. Tell me what I want to know so I can write it down and give it to the lieutenant, so he can make a report. Personally, I don’t think that you had anything to do with this killing. But I still have to ask the questions.”

It was the first time he had seen her smile and he liked it. Her nose wrinkled and it was a broad friendly grin. She was a cute kid and she would make out, oh yes, she would make out with anyone who had the D’s. He looked back at his notepad and slashed a heavy line under Big Mike.

Tab closed the door behind Andy when he left, then waited a few minutes to be sure he wasn’t coming back. When he went into the living room he stood so that he could watch the hall door and would know the moment it was opened.

“Miss Shirt, there’s something you should know.”

She was on her third large drink, but the alcohol did not seem to be having any effect. “What is that?” she asked tiredly.

“I’m not trying to be personal or anything, and I don’t know anything about Mr. O’Brien’s will…”

“You can put your mind at rest. I’ve seen it and everything goes to his sister. I’m not mentioned in it — and neither are you.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” he said coldly, his face suddenly hard. She was sorry at once.

“Please, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just being — I don’t know, bitchy. Everything happening at once like this. Don’t be angry at me, Tab — please…”

“I guess you were being a little bitchy.” He smiled for a moment before he dug into his pocket. “I figured it would be something like that. I have no complaints about Mr. O’Brien as an employer, but he took care of his money. Didn’t throw it around, that’s what I mean. Before the detective came I went through Mr. O’Brien’s wallet. It was in his jacket. I left a few D’s there but I took the rest — here.” He pushed his hand out with a folded wad of bills in it. “It’s yours, yours by right.”

“I couldn’t…”

“You have to. Things are going to be rough, Shirl. You’re going to need it more than his family. There’s no record of it. It’s yours by right.”

He put the money on the end table and she looked at it. “I suppose I should. That sister of his has enough without this. But we better split it—”

“No,” he said flatly, just as the dull buzz of the a

“Department of Hospitals,” a voice said and Tab could see two men in white uniforms on the TV screen inset near the door. They were carrying a stretcher. He went to let them in.

6

“How long you go

“That’s my business — you just hold the fort until I get back,” the doorman grunted, and looked the uniformed guard over with what he liked to think was a military eye. “I seen a lot better-looking gold buttons in my time.”

“Have a heart, Charlie, you know they’re just plastic. They’ll fall to pieces if I try to rub on them.”

In the loosely organized hierarchy of employees in Chelsea Park, Charlie was the unquestioned leader. It wasn’t a matter of salary — this was probably the smallest part of his income — but a matter of position and industry. He was the one who saw the tenants most often and he lost nothing by this advantage. His contacts outside the buildings were the best and he could get anything the residents wanted — for a price. All the tenants liked him and called him Charlie. All the employees hated him and he had never heard what they called him.

Charlie’s basement apartment came with the job, though the management would have been more than a little surprised at the number of improvements that had been made. An ancient air-conditioner wheezed and hammered and lowered the temperature at least ten degrees. Two decades of cast-off and restored furniture contributed a note of mixed color, while an impressive number of locked cabinets covered the walls. These contained a large collection of packaged food and bottled drink none of which Charlie touched himself, but instead resold at a substantial markup to the tenants. Not the least of the improvements was the absence of both a water and an electric meter; the building management unsuspectedly financed both of these major expenses for Charlie.