Murder Unrenovated

by P. M. Carlson

  She had already searched the whole third floor, inch by inch, shortly after the police had left. There had been nothing at all. But she had only given the lower floors a glance. She was locked out of the parlor-floor apartment, of course, but the front stairs and the halls were accessible. She was sure that the murderer had used the stairs, to lure or drag the victim up, and to escape. So she opened the dumbwaiter, dropped the top bolt down to keep the door into her kitchen from closing behind her, undid the screws and dropped them into a corner, and pulled herself up to Ann and Jack’s old room. She left the panel slightly ajar so she could get it open again without breaking a fingernail, and then went all the way downstairs to the first-floor hall to begin her search.

  First, the little vestibule. Light still entered the frosted windows from outside, and she didn’t have to use her flashlight at all. The house itself was quiet, but she could hear sounds of harsh music, a children’s ball game down the street, cars, and dogs. She looked carefully into the crevices of panels, into tiled corners, into the hinges and latches of the outer and inner doors. Nothing. The police had been thorough too, and anything obvious would have been found already. But there was still a faint chance that something less obvious might still be here.

  She moved on into the hallway. It was wide at the entrance, then the long elegant flight of stairs ran up the side wall. In the 1890s Caroline Sweeney had come sweetly down those steps to meet, and later marry, Tim O’Rourke. Always thought I’d fall on my face, she’d told Julia. The hall itself continued back beside the stairs to the door of the kitchen and back stairs. That door was locked because it was part of the first-floor apartment now. Without hope she tried the door and the parlor door, but the police, or Artie Lund, or young Lennie, had remembered to lock them.

  But the door under the stairs was unlocked. She went in. It was a small square area, really the top landing of the stairs to her basement rather than a true closet, though the seldom-used door to the steps was locked and the brooms Artie had left here made it seem like a closet. It was clear that there were no garottes here. No purloined letters either. A purloined broom, perhaps? Well, if there were any purloining going on these days, Artie would be just the one to do it.

  The downstairs side of the closet was another door that led to the basement steps and the hall outside her own apartment. This, too, was firmly locked, with a sturdy deadbolt that dated from the early days when she was still on good terms with Artie. None of the tenants had keys to that lock. But the police had been through the door during their search, of course, and Maggie had come through it using Lennie’s keys when she’d run down to call the police from Julia’s.

  There was a scrap of paper by the baseboard next to the door. Julia scrutinized it in the beam of the flashlight. Shucks. Overgrown Nancy Drew foiled again. It was not a scrap from an incriminating diary. Not even a laundry ticket with which she could trace the murderer’s shirts. Just a small square sticky Woolworth’s tag that said “89c.” No wonder the police had left it behind.

  On to the hall, then. She was thorough, as befitted little Bobby Cody’s former teacher—checking the baseboards, the carving in the newel post, the corners, the door hardware. Nothing. Much cleaner than it had been when it was still a busy dwelling-place. The police were better housewives than Artie and fluffy-topped Loretta; they’d swept up every bit of dust. Caroline Sweeney O’Rourke would be proud of them. Probably they’d taken it to their lab. She started up the stairs, checking every corner, every scuff mark, every banister. Nothing.

  Halfway up, she stood and stretched. Working on all fours in the dim light was not the easiest task for sixty-eight-year-old bones and eyes. Or knees. Especially knees. As she approached the top of this flight, it was even darker. Not only was the daylight almost gone, but even the streetlight that glowed through the frosted panes of the main door did not reach this high. Well, the flashlight would have to be enough. She bent again to her task.

  Below her, the back-porch door closed quietly.

  Julia froze. Had she heard right?

  Could it have been next door?

  Outside, the children called to each other still. A car passed.

  And then, closer, another doorknob turned. The locked door to the first-floor kitchen.

  And the damn flashlight was still on! Julia switched it off hurriedly, and in doing so bumped it against the step.

  Silence.

  With damped breath, Julia strained to listen. Cars passed. The children shouted. A bicycle bell. A dog. Far away, a siren.

  The back-porch door closed again, quietly.

  Gone? Had the noise frightened him away?

  Faint music from next door. A man passing on the street, reminiscing with someone about the Dodgers. From the street too, metallic clanks. A garbage can?

  Was that creak from inside?

  Julia’s grip tightened on the flashlight, ready to use it as a club.

  The dog, far away, barked shrilly. Another car passed. Wilma’s voice, faint, calling her grandchildren.

  Another car.

  No noise from this house. No motion. Nothing.

  Whoever it was had left. She’d scared him away. Well, she’d scared herself away too. Time to go home.

  Quietly, she climbed the stairs. Solid stairs, nearly silent as she ascended the two flights. At each creak, however, she stopped in terror, but then forced herself to go on. Don’t be silly, Julia. Even if he’s still down there, you’ll be safe in your dumbwaiter, the panel latched and invisible on the third floor, the walls solid on the first and second.

  She hurried across the landing to Jack and Ann’s room.

  The fabric that fell around her was dense, soft against her skin. No light came through. She stumbled, fell painfully to her knees, and the cloth tightened around her arms. She tried screaming, but the pressure on her mouth increased, the thick material was crammed between her teeth. Weight on her stomach. Her ankles bound. Then steps hurried away, down the stairs.

  She could still breathe. A little.

  She spat out the cloth and tried screaming again, but knew that the fabric muffled her voice into incoherence. Her heart pounded. Even if a neighbor somewhere were listening, he wouldn’t know there was a problem. Some kid playing, he’d think.

  Could she move? Escape into the dumbwaiter after all?

  She couldn’t walk with her feet tied. But maybe she could roll. A new kind of potato-sack race. Field Day on Garfield Place. Which way? What direction was she facing? Well, she had a chance of hitting it if she moved, none if she stayed still. She rolled vigorously in the direction she thought most likely.

  Thump. What was it? A wall, of course. Through the binding material, her fingers explored the wall. Smooth, but of course with the intervening fabric she couldn’t tell if it was plaster or wood paneling. She could feel a little baseboard. Aha! The plaster walls up here had six-inch heavy baseboards. This little flat one must be the paneled wall. Okay, she had her bearings now. She could heave herself along, a giant inchworm, feeling with her feet for the hinged panel.

  Those steps again, hurrying back upstairs. Rubber soles, but the steps were audible now that there was no attempt at stealth. Julia hunched her way along frantically, determined not to panic. There! The open panel, against her loafers, still ajar. She pushed her foot into the gap eagerly, widened it, started to wriggle her way in.

  Hands hauled her upright again. Loosened the ankle ties. She kicked out wildly and her attacker grunted but did not let go. Julia braced herself, hooked a foot behind the upright of the dumbwaiter frame so she couldn’t be dragged away, and thrashed wildly. The thick fabric slid up a little along her back. Was she winning? She freed an arm, grabbed wildly, blindly, at her opponent, but her hand closed only on hair. Then there was a sickening blow to her side. She fell back into the dumbwaiter, aware only dimly of the cloth sliding off, the panel closing as the heavy material was withdrawn, still shielding the assailant from Julia’s teary eyes. The black wave of nausea crested, and
waned.

  Footsteps hurried away.

  Trembling, Julia fumbled at the bolts, locked the panel closed.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  She took a deep breath. Time to go home.

  The flashlight had disappeared, but even in the dark she knew the dumbwaiter. Groping, she found the brake rope and released it. Her other hand, she noticed, still clutched those strands of hair. Carefully, she tucked them into her blouse pocket and began to ease herself down with the handrope. Was her enemy going down too? To meet her in her own apartment, perhaps? But she hadn’t been killed when she was tied and helpless. Why not?

  Maybe it wasn’t supposed to look like a murder. Maybe an accident would be staged.

  Be careful. More careful than before. Somehow, he’d gotten upstairs past her, to Ann’s room. How?

  Oh, blast.

  Senility, Teach, that’s your only excuse. Stupid! While she’d been crouching there cautiously on the stairs after the back-porch door had closed for the second time, waiting to be sure he had gone away, he’d run up the back stairs in those rubber-soled shoes. He’d run up, noticed the panel that she’d left ajar, and found the dumbwaiter. Then he’d just waited calmly for her to come blundering up the stairs at last. Ah, Teach, you’re failing. You would never have overlooked that if you’d been dealing with fifth-graders.

  But he hadn’t killed her. Did he think he was safe because she couldn’t identify him? Or was he planning a different death for her, something that looked accidental?

  And why had he come? She hadn’t expected him to come. What had she missed? And why had he risked climbing to the third floor to ambush her? Was he afraid she’d actually find something? Did he suspect Amy had told her something? Why this sudden attack?

  And why had he tied her and run down before coming back and pushing her into the dumbwaiter? That’s where she wanted to go anyway. He’d tied her, then freed her completely at the end. Not even a scrap of that fabric left. No record of the encounter at all, except for some very sore ribs.

  The hair. She had some of his hair. That would do it, wouldn’t it? Brugioni would be proud of her. Julia Northrup, the winsome sleuth.

  She hoped he didn’t know she had his hair.

  The dumbwaiter car inched down toward the door into Julia’s kitchen. She saw the crack of light at the top of the frame, and slowed. No sense dropping feetfirst into another ambush. Weapons? She had her loafers and the six big screws that fastened the car into place for its function as a closet. Not much of an arsenal. She picked up two screws and adjusted her position so that she could kick out viciously at anyone who opened the door. Then, gripping a screw in each hand, she cautiously pulled on the handrope, letting herself down gently into position.

  The door was still closed. Was he outside, waiting?

  Well, she could wait too. But it would help if she didn’t have to keep holding on to the handrope. She adjusted the brake, then, cautiously, screwed in one of the big screws as tightly as she could get it with her fingers. Not snug, she needed the screwdriver in her kitchen for that, but it would help hold if she had to struggle.

  Near at hand, there was an enormous crash. The little car shivered. For an instant Julia thought he was trying to destroy the car. Then she realized what the crash had meant. Frantic, she groped to find the next hole, shoved another screw into place, and then a third, twisting them furiously into the frame, ignoring the sharp metal ripping the skin of her fingertips. As she jammed in the fourth, the second crash came. Again, the car shuddered—but it held.

  Julia closed her eyes in relief. She’d won that round, just barely. Her enemy had cut through the ropes that held the counterweights and sent them hurtling to the cellar. But by pushing in the screws, Julia had not hurtled after them. She was still here, on her own floor. Not lying wounded in a smashed car down in the closed cellar shaft.

  Shakily, she started to put in a fifth screw, then stopped. What are you doing, Teach, you idiot? To cut the counterweight ropes he had to be up on the third floor in Ann’s room, or even in the attic. He couldn’t reach the ropes anywhere else. So he’s not in the kitchen! Get out, old dummy! Run! Run to the hall, into the street! Call Brugioni! You’ve won, you’ve got his hair!

  Was he rushing downstairs even now, ready to assault her again? He had staged his accident. What would he do when he realized she hadn’t crashed?

  Ambush her in the kitchen, perhaps. But he’d have to get there first. It was a race. So get a move on, Teach.

  Julia contemplated the cabinet door into her kitchen. She’d burst out, she decided, feetfirst, screws in hand, to surprise him if he was there. Continue at the same pace out to the street, to Wilma next door, to a telephone. Hope he wasn’t between her and the door. Sprint like you’ve never sprinted, Julia. She drew a deep breath and launched herself at the door.

  Smashed against it.

  It did not move.

  But it had to move! She remembered dropping the upper bolt into place with the door open, so it couldn’t close and latch by itself. There was no way it could be locked now!

  Unless—

  Oh, damn.

  She shoved again, but the immobility of the door no longer surprised her. Julia leaned back into the corner of the little car, dazed. So that was why he had kept her tied for a few minutes before pushing her into the dumbwaiter. He had run down to bolt her kitchen cabinet exit closed, while Julia, in pathetic eagerness to escape, had struggled and strained to reach this little car. This little car, disabled with its counterweights destroyed, and exits blocked. The accident had been staged, and this was it.

  She was trapped.

  9

  “Hey, man, you gone musical on me, or link up with the mob?”

  Nick set the guitar case carefully on the bar stool next to him. “Nah. You and me, Franklin, we’re the wrong nationality.”

  The bartender’s shrewd black face creased in laughter. “Right about that, man. Want a drink?”

  “Maybe a strawberry daiquiri.”

  “Shit, for that I gotta send away to my fag uncle in Miami.” Franklin picked up the two bills on the bar. “So, you donating this to the Orphan Bartender Fund?”

  “I’m looking for a guy who plays drums.”

  “Music after all. Black drummer?”

  “White, I think. Named Curt.”

  “Where’s he hang out?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here. Don’t know what he looks like either. He’s supposed to live on the nice side of Union Square.”

  “Ain’t no nice side.” Franklin waggled the bills thoughtfully. “Try Palomino,” he said at last. “He know that scene, got musicians on the premises. Eighteenth, near the Square.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your new woman keeping you happy?” Franklin had been a dealer for Nick’s first wife, whose drug habit had contributed to her death five years before. He still considered Maggie new.

  “She’s fine,” Nick replied. “Going to have a baby.”

  “No shit!” Franklin beamed. “Knew you wasn’t shooting blanks, man!”

  “Happened after I switched to strawberry daiquiris.”

  Franklin guffawed and tucked the bills back into Nick’s shirt pocket. “You go buy your woman a present from old Franklin, hear? And if she bring in the baby, they both get a free hit.”

  “Aw, Franklin, you orphan bartenders are so sentimental.”

  Palomino’s, halfway down the island, had a crowd as mixed as Franklin’s. On a tiny stage tucked in the corner, a black jazz trio sweated. Amateur night. Except for the pianist, Nick decided. He wasn’t bad. Through the smoky haze he saw a space at the bar and made his way to it.

  The bartender, black but with a startling pale Afro and an astonishing amount of jewelry, was cautious at first, eyeing Nick’s brawny build and his guitar case with uneasiness. But the mention of Franklin’s name, and a little cash, brought acceptance.

  “Yeah, maybe I hear about someone like that.”

&n
bsp; “Had a friend named Denny. From Winston.”

  Palomino looked at him sharply. “No trouble here, man.”

  “No. No trouble. Is Curt here now?”

  “Here? Old Curt? Old Mr. Clean Jeans? Shit, man, Shirley Temple come around first.” Delicately, he ran a finger along the heavy gold chain around his neck. “But somebody here know him, maybe.”

  Nick dropped another bill on the bar. “Okay. I’m going to the coffeehouse on the corner there. I’ll wait for him.”

  “Yeah.” Palomino seemed relieved to be rid of white affairs. “He be along.”

  It was already eleven when Nick entered the coffeehouse. He ordered a cup from the tired waiter and went into the phone booth to call Maggie.

  “Progress?” she asked.

  “I think I’m on the scent.” He told her what Palomino had said.

  “He was afraid of trouble?”

  “I’m a big guy, Maggie. Doing my tough act, complete with guitar case. Dropping Franklin’s name. Asking about a murder.”

  “Yeah, wow, I’d be scared too.”

  “How easy is a bush supposed a bear.”

  “Well, bush, watch your back. You’re waiting for Curt now?”

  “Yeah, I’ll have some supper and see what turns up.”

  “Oh, God, it was my turn to cook, wasn’t it?” They hadn’t seen each other since the morning. She’d called home excitedly after tracking Amy and sent him out on this chase. “I’m afraid I’m not a very reliable roommate.”

  “I know,” said Nick. “It wasn’t your well-ordered domestic life that attracted me.”

  “Likewise.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “God, Nick, I hope our kid doesn’t turn out stuffy. Poor thing’ll be miserable with the two of us.”

  “We’ve got an old Irish saying: Stuffy to stuffy in three generations.”

  “Well, it won’t come from my side of the family,” she said confidently. “See you later, love.”

  He bought a burger and a Greek salad and ate slowly, the guitar case propped next to him in the booth. Would their child be stuffy? Poor little thing. Wrong family for that. Of course, babies were all stuffy in their way, insisting on frequent meals and dry diapers. But they liked surprises too. Peekaboo games. Being swung in the air by proud fathers. And he knew that even the stuffiest, most unpleasant baby would receive lavish and sensible love from Maggie, who had craved a child for years. She remained childlike herself in her vast enthusiasms, in her relish for games and new challenges. This baby, sweet or stuffy, was lucky in its mother.