by Parnell Hall
But that couldn’t be it. Because that was true in any case, no matter who the murderer was. Now that the police had arrested Noah Sprague, it now applied to him, but no more so than to anyone else, if you know what I mean. That was a fact that didn’t fit, regardless of who the killer was. But what was bothering me—or at least what I thought was bothering me—was something to do with Sprague himself. There was something that didn’t jibe specifically with him being the murderer.
But I had no idea what it was.
I drove up the West Side Highway, hit a minor traffic jam north of 42nd Street. Considered whether I should stick it out with the highway, or go up Tenth or Eleventh Avenue. Couldn’t decide. Realized I didn’t really care, since I was heading ignominiously home with nothing to do.
I sat in traffic, went over the case again.
By rights, Noah Sprague was the man. Aside from the call itself, there was what the guy said. The publicist was a warning. You’re next. What could be more explicit?
So why couldn’t I buy it?
Was it merely the fact that it was Sergeant Thurman pointing it out? Was I such a schmuck that I couldn’t accept anything the man did, even if it was obviously right? Was I the worst kind of ignorant, prejudiced, pig-headed fool?
Probably.
More than likely.
Traffic thinned out, and I forged ahead, went up the ramp at 57th Street and onto the elevated highway. Took the highway uptown, got off at 95th and onto Riverside Drive.
I was now near both my home and his.
Wilber Penrose.
The wannabe writer.
My favorite suspect.
Was that it? Was it the proximity? The fact he lived so close to me? That he would have had an excellent opportunity to put the fish in my car? The faint smell was still there on the seat, a constant reminder. Was that what was bugging me, nagging at me, making me unwilling to accept the facts?
No. To look at it logically, Wilber Penrose had connections to both Winnington’s publicist, Sherry Pressman, and his agent, Abe Feinstein. Any connection to Doug Mark was as yet unknown.
On the other hand, Noah Sprague had connections to Sherry Pressman and Doug Mark, but not Abe Feinstein.
Or did he? Wasn’t this a confusion of cause and effect? The police assumed a connection with Sherry Pressman and Doug Mark, because Noah Sprague had Kenneth P. Winnington’s unlisted phone number. But his only real connection with the two of them was if he killed them. But the police were assuming he killed them, because of his connection. Totally convoluted reasoning, based on absolutely nothing.
Except the phone call. The publicist was a warning. You’re next. Practically a confession. Hard to fault the cops on that.
My eyes widened, and I almost slammed into the back of a bus.
Good god, that was it. That was what was bothering me.
The publicist was a warning. You’re next.
But there were two killings. And there had been two at the time of the phone call. Yet Noah Sprague had referred to only one. The one that had been reported in the newspapers.
But not the one that had just happened.
The publicist was a warning. You’re next.
Wrong.
Doug Mark had been next.
You wanna be a murder victim, you gotta get in line.
The real killer knows two people are dead.
He doesn’t name one, and say You’re next.
I was tempted to turn around and drive back downtown. But who was going to listen? Certainly not Frost or Thurman. As for MacAullif, if I brought him another theory based on no more information than I had the last time I was in his office, well, it was not a pretty prospect.
No, no one was going to listen to me, not unless I had something more concrete. I had a theory, that was all, and a half-baked one at that. If I was going to get anywhere, I had to work it out.
I turned off Riverside Drive, found a parking space on 104th. Walked up the street to my building, and took the elevator upstairs.
There was mail in front of my door. That’s how it works in my building. The elevator men hand out the mail. They roll a large wooden box with cubbyholes into the elevator, sort the mail into it, then go floor to floor, putting the mail in front of each door. By lunchtime it’s usually there.
Since it was now two in the afternoon, it was no surprise the mail had been delivered, only that Alice hadn’t picked it up. Then I remembered this was the day she was going shopping in New Jersey with her friend Katherine. And Tommie was still in school. Which was good. I’d have the apartment to myself. Maybe I could think this thing out.
I picked up the mail, unlocked the door, and went in.
The foyer was dark, I switched on the lights, and stood there, flipping through the letters.
I must confess, I’m always eager to get the mail. Even though I have no reason to be. Even though I’m not expecting anything. Still, I always treat the mail as if one letter just might have that elusive million dollars in it.
Needless to say, it didn’t. As I riffled through the mail I found the Con Ed bill, the telephone bill, the cable bill, a letter for Tommie, an L. L. Bean catalogue.
And a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it.
It said: 315 Broome Street. 2nd floor.
44.
I RANG FOR THE ELEVATOR, waited till Jerry, our young elevator operator, brought it to our floor.
“Jerry,” I said. “Did you hand out the mail today?”
“Of course I did. Is something missing?”
“No. Did you sort it too?”
“Sure. Who else?”
I unfolded the piece of paper, showed it to him. “Did you put this in my box?”
“What is it?” He took it, looked at it. “No, I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. It doesn’t have your name on it. How would I know to put it in your box?”
“You’ve got me there. So you’ve never seen this before?”
“Not at all.”
“Then how did it get in my box?”
“I have no idea. Are you sure it was in your box?”
“It was with my mail.”
“In front of your door?”
“Yeah.”
Jerry smiled, shrugged. “Well, I’m not the detective here, but just because it was in front of your door doesn’t mean it was in your box. Maybe someone put it in front of your door.”
“It wasn’t on top.”
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t on top of the mail. It was stuck in the middle.”
Jerry shrugged. “What can I tell you. So someone came up to your door, stuck it in the middle.”
“How would he get in the building? The downstairs doors are locked, and you didn’t let anyone up, did you?”
“No.”
“So how could he get in?”
“Maybe it was someone who lives in the building. Wanted to leave you a note, walked up and down the stairs.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. But I didn’t think so. “Tell me. Was there anybody in the elevator who didn’t belong? Anyone you saw today you didn’t know?”
“I don’t think so. I—” Jerry’s eyes widened. “Fifteenth floor.”
“Huh?”
“There was a guy came to see someone on the fifteenth floor. Girl in 15C. Well, I knew she wasn’t there—she works during the day—but he insisted on going up, ringing the bell.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And ...?”
“She wasn’t there. Just like I told him. So he left.”
“But he did go up and down in the elevator?”
“Yeah.”
“And this was while you were sorting the mail? While the box was in the elevator?”
“As a matter of fact, I think it was.”
“Any chance he could have stuck something in my box?”
Jerry looked pained. “I wouldn’t think so. I try to be a
lert. But it’s not the type of thing I’m looking for. Someone adding something to the mail. So I guess it’s possible.”
“What did he look like? Can you describe him?”
“He was a little guy. A white guy.”
“How old?”
“Older than me.”
“Older than me?’
Jerry frowned, dubiously. Seemed not at all happy with the question. “Yeah, I suppose so. It was hard to tell. The guy was bundled up in a coat and had a hat pulled down. The woman he was calling on, maybe it crossed my mind he was too old for her. But she’s pretty young,”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “What about the face? Glasses? Beard? Color of hair?”
“I don’t think he had glasses. But I could be wrong. I’m in the middle of sorting the mail. I’m concerned with where the guy goes, not what he looks like.”
“Right,” I said. “And a beard?”
“No beard.”
“You sure?”
“I think I’d remember a beard. But the color of the hair, and how old the guy is—I’m giving you the best I can. Is it important?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
But it was.
Wilber Penrose was a little man who could have fit the description if Jerry’d been willing to concede he was older than me. Which was a close point. I never really comprehend how old I’m getting, and I’m always surprised by people’s ages in relation to my own. What I mean is, some guy I think is old will turn out to be younger than me.
Yeah, I know, I’m rambling. The point is, without being able to pin Jerry down, Wilber Penrose could be it.
I took the elevator down to the lobby, went out into the street. Went to the pay phone on the corner, fished out my notebook, made the call.
Got Wilber Penrose’s answering machine.
Damn.
I’d have felt a lot better if he’d answered the phone. Known he was in his apartment on I08th Street.
Not on the second floor of 315 Broome.
I thought of calling MacAullif, but with what? An address scrawled on a scrap of paper? That’d make his day. There’s no way he’d do anything about it, and all I’d get was abuse.
Still.
I guess I just read too damn many murder mysteries where the hero gets a clue and decides not to tell the police.
I dropped a quarter in the pay phone, made the call.
Needless to say, MacAullif wasn’t thrilled. “Didn’t we just have this conversation?”
“Yeah, I know. Something came up.”
“What?”
I told him about the note. To say he was skeptical would be an understatement. I was lucky he didn’t just hang up the phone.
“315 Broome, 2nd floor?” MacAullif said.
“That’s right.”
“Scrawled in pencil?”
“In pen.”
“Oh, that makes it better. Much better. Here’s what you should do. Rush this down to me right away, so I can get it to the handwriting boys. So they can compare it to this suspect they’ve picked up. Because maybe, just maybe, while he’s been sitting in the interrogation room, he managed to get away long enough to stick a message in your mailbox.”
“It wasn’t him.”
“No shit, it wasn’t him. And if it doesn’t have your name on it, most likely it wasn’t for you. You know what it sounds like to me?”
“What?”
“You have alternate side parking in your neighborhood?”
“Of course.”
“You double park your car, you leave a sign in the window sayin where you are. Well, that’s what this sounds like. 315 Broome, 2nd floor. It’s the note you leave when you double park your car, so the guy you block can find you and get out.”
“Broome Street’s in SoHo.”
“I know where Broome Street is.”
“So what’s the sign doing in my neighborhood?”
“What’s the difference if it was left by mistake?” MacAullif said. “Look, you made my day callin’ for advice. So, you want some advice? Forget about this. Take a nice hot shower, relax, have a drink.”
“I don’t drink.”
“More’s the pity. Some way or another, you gotta calm down.”
MacAullif hung up the phone.
Shit.
Well, what did I expect?
I dropped in a quarter, called Wilber Penrose again. Which was stupid. What, just in case he’d come home in the last five minutes? Well, he hadn’t. The answering machine was still on.
I hung up, considered doing exactly what MacAullif had said.
I couldn’t do it.
I got in the car, drove downtown.
There was no traffic on the West Side Highway. I took it down to Canal Street, across to West Broadway, and up to Broome.
315 was an old warehouse on a block of buildings that had been renovated into lofts. Only 315 had not. The ground floor had a metal grille over the front window, and appeared empty. The front door was glass, through which I could see a long narrow flight of stairs.
That’s what the note said. Second floor.
I went up to the front door, tried the knob.
It opened.
Hot damn.
I didn’t know if I was pleased or not. I had a feeling I’d rather have been disappointed. But there it was, a long narrow flight of stairs.
The light at the bottom was a bare bulb, hanging from the ceiling.
The light at the top was out.
Which wasn’t good. The light at the bottom illuminated only half the stairs. At the top I could vaguely see the outline of a door to the left, and, to the right, another flight of stairs.
But aside from that.
Dark shadows.
Dim alcoves.
And a long, narrow, wooden stair.
I didn’t want to go up it. My stomach fluttered at the thought. A tiny wave of apprehension. A gentle reminder you’re doing something you don’t want to do.
What did I want to do?
I stood still, listened for a sound. Craned my neck. Foolishly. As if an extra inch would let me hear upstairs.
Heard nothing. Dead silence. Not even a floorboard creaking. Not even a street noise from outside.
Dead silence.
What was this damn building, soundproof?
What did I want to do?
I think at that moment, I wanted to go back out, get in my car, and drive home. What kept me from doing it was the thought, Why did I come here to begin with?
It was the same thought that drove me up the stairs. If I wasn’t going to go upstairs, why did I come?
I took a deep breath, blew it out again slowly, the way I’d been taught to relax before shooting a free throw, so many years ago, when my only problem had been finding a pick to get off a jump shot, not should I ascend an uninviting flight of stairs.
I listened again. Heard nothing.
Tried the first step.
It creaked. Not loudly. But in the dead silence, anything seemed loud,
I gritted my teeth, continued up. Step by creaking step.
Loft buildings had high ceilings. It was a long flight of stairs.
Halfway up it got dark as I passed the point where the light from the downstairs bulb no longer reached. Was there light from above? There must be some, because I could see vague outlines. It must be trickling down the stairway from some higher floor.
But not much light. Nothing on the second-floor landing was clear.
I took another step and saw it. A gleam of reflected light. Just for an instant. There in the dark. There above me. In the stairwell. A sudden gleam, like a cat’s eye. Could it be a cat? Not that high. Not unless it was on a ledge.
How about a man?
Same thing. Too tall for a man. Unless he was crouched up the stairs, waiting to spring, and—
There it was again. What was that?
And then.
Oh, hell.
A rueful smile as the gleam proved to be the light reflected
from the burned out, dangling, bare bulb.
I exhaled, and the tension poured out of me.
Jesus Christ.
I got a grip, continued up the stairs.
I reached the landing. There. Not so bad. Exactly what it looked like from the bottom. A door off to the left, more stairs off to the right. Dark shadows hiding nothing. An empty alcove.
No one there.
I raised my hand, knocked on the door.
It opened.
I don’t mean someone opened it. I mean it swung open. Not wide open. Just slightly. But when I knocked, it moved. There was a sound of metal on metal, the sound of the unlatched latch sliding out, pushing the door open about an inch.
I made a decision. The decision was not particularly brave. It was not that I was so eager to get where I was going. It was more that I was not particularly thrilled with where I was.
Anyway, I pushed the door open.
Immediate gratification. Light.
Not bright, blinding light, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, rather dim, murky light, from some unseen source. But compared to the landing, it was heaven.
I looked around.
I appeared to be in a vast cavern of indeterminate size, for what little light there was did not extend to the walls or ceiling. I could really only see about ten or fifteen feet in front of me, and—
There on the floor, just inside the door, was a white envelope. And it looked as if ...
I bent down, snatched it up.
Good lord.
Written: on the envelope in ballpoint pen in capital letters was my name:
STANLEY HASTINGS.
It occurred to me, the same lettering as the note in Doug Mark’s hand?
It also occurred to me I should leave this evidence intact for the police.
That occurred to me while I was ripping it open.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
I unfolded it.
There was a message in capital letters and ballpoint pen:
GUESS WHO?
I blinked.
Frowned.
Then something exploded in my head; and everything went dark.
45.
MY FIRST SENSATION WAS THAT I was alive.
It was a feeling that gradually became a conscious thought, I didn’t know why that was so important to me. That is, why that thought should be consuming me. But it was and it did, and as it gradually took over my consciousness, memory came flooding back.
