“I did not know that. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Laska.”
“Yup. Likewise.” He nodded, then closed the door on us.
“Now what, Heath?”
“Jenkins must have a passkey. Go see if he will let us in. Tell him we’re worried about her because she doesn’t answer the door.”
“Right. Back in a minute.”
It was more like five or six minutes. As I paced, the door to 214 opened, and an older gentleman stepped out. “Who’s there?” he asked.
I stopped abruptly and stared at him, realizing at once that he was blind.
“I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t disturb you. I’m Heath Barrington, here to see Mrs. Gittings.”
“She lives in 212,” he said.
“Yes, I know. She doesn’t answer her door.”
“She can be a bit hard of hearing. I should know, I live right next door to her. I’m Joe.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Joe. Did you hear anything out of the ordinary coming from her apartment this morning?”
He shook his head. “No, actually real quiet in there so far today, not even the radio. I’m from Nashville originally.”
“How nice,” I said, unsure of what else to say as I glanced down the hall impatiently.
“Where are you from?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Ah, a Yankee.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Want to come in for a cup of tea? I just put the kettle on.”
“Thanks, but I’m waiting on my friend and Mr. Jenkins.”
“Oh, okay.” He looked disappointed, and I got the impression he was a bit lonely. He seemed a kind man.
“Perhaps another time. Here they come now.” I saw Alan striding quickly down the hallway with Jenkins’s lanky frame in tow, brandishing a key ring.
“Right. Another time, then. Have a good day, Mr. Barrington.”
“You too, Joe.” He closed the door as I turned toward Alan and Jenkins and walked back to the door of the apartment.
“Thanks for coming up, Mr. Jenkins. We’re concerned about Mrs. Gittings. She doesn’t answer the door.”
“That’s what this fellow said,” he replied. He rapped on the door with the back end of his flashlight, the noise echoing up and down the hall. Somewhere toward the front of the building, another door opened and a young woman peered out at us, then stepped back into her apartment again and closed the door.
“She doesn’t answer, all right,” Jenkins said.
“I noticed,” I said sarcastically.
He gave me a look, then inserted his passkey. The lock turned easily enough, but the door opened just a couple of inches before stopping abruptly.
“She’s got the chain on,” he said.
Keyes looked at me. “Then she’s definitely in there.”
“It would seem so. These apartments only have one entrance, don’t they, Jenkins?”
“Yes, that’s right, and the fire escape out the window, of course.”
“I can’t picture Mrs. Gittings climbing down the fire escape,” Alan said.
“That would be a sight, all right,” Jenkins said.
“Stand back, I’m going to see if I can force the chain,” I said.
“Hey there, now, we should call the police before we go doing that,” Jenkins said.
“Actually, we are police officers.” I flashed him my badge, intentionally neglecting to tell him we were Milwaukee Police officers.
“The hell you say.”
“The hell I do say. Stand back.”
I heaved my body against the door to no avail, except for a sharp pain in my shoulder.
“Son of a bitch. That chain must be anchored in cement,” I said, rubbing my shoulder.
“Let me try.” Keyes braced himself against the opposite door, then lunged forward, wood from the door frame splintering everywhere as he literally fell into Mrs. Gittings’s apartment.
Jenkins and I stepped in after him, and I helped him to his feet. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. That’s one solid chain. Or was,” Alan said, brushing himself off.
“I’ll say. Good job. And most of the door is even still intact.”
Keyes laughed nervously. “What a way to make an entrance.” The three of us then perused the living room and tiny adjoining kitchen, but Mrs. Gittings was nowhere in sight. “She doesn’t appear to be here.”
“Strange.” I walked over to the living room windows that led to the fire escape to see if they were locked. They were. “Doesn’t look like anyone would have been in here that wasn’t still here, including Mrs. Gittings.” I felt instinctively for my gun but left it holstered for the time being.
From behind me I heard Jenkins say, “Maybe she’s in the bedroom.” He moved surprisingly quickly down a small hall off the entrance. Almost at once, I heard him call out loudly, “Mrs. Gittings. Mrs. Gittings.”
A shudder went down my spine, and I knew something was wrong as I hurried toward him, Alan right behind me. We literally ran into Jenkins as he stepped out of the bedroom looking ashen. “She’s dead, gentlemen. Poor old soul.”
I glanced over his shoulder at the lifeless, tiny figure lying on the bed. “Dead? Good God. Jenkins, call the police.”
“I thought you were the police.”
“Different district. Just call the police, now.”
“Mrs. Gittings doesn’t have a phone. She always has me call if she needs a taxi or something.”
“Then call from your office, or wherever it is you call from.”
“Right, right.” He looked confused and upset, but he hurried out the main door and down the hall, where I noticed other neighbors had gathered, including Joe and Mr. Laska, all of them chattering and asking questions.
“Keyes, get out in the hall, and do your best crowd control until the cops get here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He strode out into the hall, leaving the shattered door open, flashing his badge as he attempted to keep the nosy occupants of the second floor at bay.
I knew I should go in the bedroom and get a close look at Mrs. Gittings before the police arrived, but I shuddered at the thought. I didn’t want to see that quirky, strange, delightful woman dead, to have that be the last vision I had of her. I had a few minutes to spare, and I looked around her living room. It was where she spent most of her time when she wasn’t at the Edmonton, I suspected, yet it was sparsely decorated, old, dark, and rather depressing. It smelled of must and rosewater. The wallpaper of faded green vines was peeling in places, and the threadbare carpet was stained. All of the corners of the apartment had cobwebs, and pale jade-colored drapes hung lifelessly at the windows.
A small brown easy chair, its upholstery dirty and worn, sat on the side of the console radio, a plain wooden rocker on the other. Next to the easy chair, on a little table, were stacks of newspapers and magazines. Against the far wall stood two chairs next to a small table with dirty dishes on the top, alongside what appeared to be an empty whisky bottle. Through the door to the kitchen I saw more bottles, some empty, some full, some half full, and still more dirty dishes.
A yellowed, faded Christmas card sat on the radio. I walked over and picked it up. Christmas greetings! adorned the outside, above a wintery scene of a boy sledding down a hill. Inside, Merry Christmas and a joyous New Year. Below the printed script, neat handwriting: Wishing you the best of holidays, Aunt Violet. I’m sorry we won’t be able to see you this Christmas, but hopefully next year. All the best, Mike and Julie, December 8th, 1946.
I set the card back in its place, my heart suddenly even more heavy.
At last I decided to head to the bedroom to have a look, but as I did, I noticed something moving down the hall. It was a tiny figure, all in gauzy white, with long, gray, wispy hair flowing down the back. Mrs. Gittings was alive. I was overjoyed at first as I watched her marching barefoot to the front door, her arms stretched out before her. But she would soon catch me in her apartment with the door broken. I p
anicked. There was nowhere to hide. She shuffled to the door and pushed it closed, the lock clicking tightly in spite of the broken frame. She seemed not to notice the chain dangling down or the splintered wood around it.
As I knew she would, she saw me, a shocked expression on her face as I stood there in the middle of her living room. She screamed and started yelling in that raspy voice. “What are you doing in my apartment? Who are you? I’m going to kill you! Get out! I have a gun, you know.” She went to a small table by the front door, opened the drawer, and pulled out a revolver, which she aimed rather shakily at me.
My hand went to my own gun, but I kept it holstered for the time being. I knew the light from the windows was behind me, and she couldn’t see me clearly.
I could hear Keyes pounding on the door. “Heath! Heath! What’s going on? Why did you close the door?”
I kept my voice calm, but spoke loudly. “Mrs. Gittings, it’s Heath Barrington. Mr. Keyes is out in the hall. We were worried about you, so Jenkins let us in. You sent me a note, asking me to come here.” I stared at her and she stared back, her hand shaking, the gun wobbling back and forth, until finally a look of recognition crossed her face. The clucking started abruptly, and she dropped the gun. She walked unsteadily to the easy chair and collapsed into it, crying.
I went to her, kneeling by her side, and cradled her in my arms as the smell of whiskey and body odor hit my nostrils. It emanated from every pore of her body. “It’s all right, it’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here, Mr. Keyes is here. I’m just going to go let him in, all right?”
She continued to cry inconsolably, so I slowly got to my feet and went to the door, opening it to a very bewildered Alan and several nosy neighbors. “She’s alive. Jenkins was mistaken. I think she was just in a deep, drunken stupor. Go tell Jenkins to call off the police.”
“Yes, sir,” Alan replied, obviously relieved.
I closed the door again and picked up the revolver from the floor. It was an older model but in good condition. I shuddered again as I checked the chamber and found three bullets. I couldn’t tell if it had been recently fired or not. I returned the gun to the drawer, wondering if it was the one missing from Blount’s desk. Then I went back to the small, gray figure in white, still sobbing and clucking into the worn brown upholstery of the chair. I knelt beside her once more.
“Mrs. Gittings? Please don’t cry. I came to see you because you sent me a note. You asked me to come see you, but you didn’t answer the door when we knocked and we became concerned. You’re safe, no one will harm you. You had something to tell me, remember?”
The sobbing abated, and she turned her head to me. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she stared at me as if from in a cloud. “Bruck, bruck, bruck, bruck.” More clucking.
I took out my handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said softly, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
“Mrs. Gittings? What did you want to tell me?”
Still more clucking as she waddled her small little head back and forth. “I saw him, I did. I saw him.”
“Who did you see, Mrs. Gittings?”
“Him. Through the looking glass behind the mirror, the cyclops sits in wait. Through the door they enter, and unknowingly seal their fate, bruck, bruck, bruck.”
“What do you mean? You saw a cyclops? Someone with one eye?” I thought immediately of Walter Gillingham.
Her eyes were red and swollen as she gazed up at me, and I wasn’t sure she could even see me. She dabbed at them once more with my handkerchief, which I got the feeling I wasn’t going to get back.
“It was dark, so dark. Then an angel came out of the light, all in white. I went toward the light, and I could smell smoke, something burning. It was the devil, I’m sure. But the angel must have won.”
“An angel?”
“Yes. I went toward the light, and I saw him. There was blood on him. I knew it was blood, it stood out so on the white, and the smoke of the devil hung in the air. Something was burning.”
“Mrs. Gittings, I don’t understand what you’re saying. You saw Mr. Blount after he’d been shot?”
“Bruck, bruck, bruck, I need a drink.”
I sighed. “All right, just a moment.”
I got back to my feet and went into the kitchen. The glasses I found in a cupboard were dusty and dirty. I rinsed one off as best I could and filled it with cold water from the tap.
Returning to the easy chair, I held it out to her, but her hand trembled so fiercely she couldn’t hold the glass. “Let me help you.” I held it to her lips as she took a sip and then made a sour face.
“Whiskey.” Then more clucking.
I sighed and returned with the glass to the kitchen, where I poured most of the water into the sink and added whiskey from one of the many bottles to the glass. Once more I brought it to her and held it to her lips. One sip, then two, then three. The clucking grew softer. Two more sips, and she sounded more contented, like a baby after its bottle.
I set the glass on top of the radio next to the old Christmas card. “Mrs. Gittings, what did you want to tell me? What did you send the note for? Did you do something? Did you see something?”
She looked up at me, then over to the glass, still half full of whiskey, and pointed a shaky hand to it. I gave her some more.
Her eyes looked glazed, still red and puffy. She finished the whiskey and brucked contentedly, clutching my handkerchief in one hand, the empty glass in the other as a child would a teddy bear. “Mr. Barrington, I saw him. There was blood all over. Bruck, bruck, bruck.”
I sighed, growing impatient in spite of myself. “You saw Mr. Blount after he’d been shot, Mrs. Gittings? Is that what you mean?”
“Bruck, bruck. Dead, blood. Good and dead. And I saw an angel, come to take him away, I imagine, bruck, bruck. The devil had been there. I could smell him, but the angel must have won.”
“Mrs. Gittings, we ran into each other at the hotel last night, remember? You said something then about all this. Why did you send for me now?”
“Bruck, bruck, you’re a detective, aren’t you? I thought about it all night, didn’t know what to do. Bruck, bruck, bruck.”
“About what you saw? Or about what you did? Where did you get that gun? The one in the drawer by the door.”
She looked at me, a bit of drool from the side of her lips. “Gun?”
“The gun in the drawer, the one you just had. Where did you get it?”
“He gave it to me.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“My husband. Do you know him? Have you met him?”
I shook my head. “No, Mrs. Gittings, I’ve never met him, but I’m sure he’s a fine fellow. He gave you the gun?”
“Shot him dead. Evil. Bruck, bruck, bruck.” Her voice trailed off.
“Who shot him dead, Mrs. Gittings? Who did it? Do you know who shot him? Did you shoot him?” But I couldn’t get anything more out of her at that point as she closed her eyes again, and her breathing became shallow and soft. She had fallen asleep, or more likely, passed out again.
I pried the empty glass from her hand and returned it to the kitchen, where I washed it and put it away. Then, as gently as I could, I picked her up, noting how incredibly light she was, how I could feel her bones, and I carried her to the bedroom, where I tucked her softly back into bed, her left hand still clutching my handkerchief.
I returned to the living room once more, and on a hunch glanced at the stack of newspapers next to the easy chair. Sunday was on top, and below that was Friday’s. Saturday’s was missing.
I went quietly out, though I’m not sure why, as it would take the building falling down to rouse her again. I closed the door behind me, making sure it locked. The neighbors, I noticed, had all grown tired or bored and had returned to their respective apartments.
Downstairs I ran into Keyes, chatting with Jenkins. “Were you able to stop the police?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve been here a few times be
fore for Mrs. Gittings, so they understood,” Jenkins said.
“Oh? What happened before?”
“She tends to play her radio too loudly, and we get a lot of noise complaints. Sometimes she wanders the halls incoherently, making that clucking noise. Once she came home from the Edmonton, could barely walk, clucking like all get-out. She went up to the third floor, took off all her clothes down to her underthings, and started banging on the door of apartment 312, trying to get in.”
“She was on the wrong floor,” Alan said.
“Yes, poor thing. Though I still don’t understand why she took all her clothes off. Police had to come and get her back to her place.”
“Doesn’t she have any family? Any friends?” I asked.
“There’s a niece out in Philly, but no one else I know of. She’s gotten worse over the years. Kind of sad.”
“Very sad,” Alan said.
“I’ve worked here eleven years. She’s been here nine, I think. Moved in after her husband died. From what I understand, he left her with a small pension from the gas company and not much more. He was a gambler, I hear. Some of her neighbors watch out for her, Mr. Laska and the blind guy, but she keeps to herself most of the time.”
“She definitely doesn’t seem to have much,” I said.
“Nope. Pretty much wears the same outfit every day. The pension is enough to pay her rent and expenses each month, but that’s about it, I think.”
“Will she be charged for the damage to her door? To repair the chain?” Alan asked.
“It won’t be much, but the building manager will send her a bill.”
I took a card out of my wallet. “Here’s my address up in Milwaukee. Have the manager send the bill to me.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Barrington. Mighty nice of you,” Jenkins said.
“It was my fault to begin with. And if anything does happen to her, try and let me know, okay?”
Jenkins nodded. “All right. What for?”
“Because she’s a nice lady, because she’s a human being all alone.” And hopefully not a murderer, I added to myself. “Did Mrs. Gittings go out this morning, by the way?”
Jenkins cocked his head. “Yes, she did. She was up early for her. She left around seven thirty or so, I’d say.”
Death Checks In Page 14
