The late lamented, p.3
The Late Lamented, page 3
She saw my suitcase and asked, "Looking for a room?"
"Yes," I said. "I saw your sign. Hope it's still vacant."
"It is. The front room there." She walked past me and opened the door of it. Stood aside so I could go in. But she said, "Ten bucks a week," so I'd be discouraged and not waste her time by looking at it if that was too much for me.
I went past her into the room and flicked on the light switch; she stayed in the doorway. It wasn't too bad a room, although seven or eight bucks would have been a fairer price, and I might have got it for eight or nine if I dickered. But I didn't want to dicker, especially as it was ideally located for my purpose. From the window I could see anybody who came and left, and with my door ajar I'd probably be able to hear most of the telephone conversations on that wall phone.
"I'll take it, I guess," I said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic about it. I took out my wallet and found a ten-dollar bill, handed it to her.
She took it, but didn't move. She said, "I'm not fussy, but I got a few rules. No noise or music after ten. That's one of them."
I felt like asking her, for the hell of it, if she wouldn't mind if I played trombone, but I didn't.
"No cooking in rooms. Not even coffee. But I give breakfast to people that don't want to go out for it, Three dollars a week—that's for six breakfasts; I don't do it on Sunday. Any time you want to eat from seven to nine. You want breakfasts?"
I hesitated. I didn't, really, but it occurred to me that Wanda just might have her breakfasts here and so it would be a good chance to get acquainted with her. So I said, "Well—I don't know about permanently, especially because I don't know what hours I'll be working. But I'll try it the first week." And I dug out my wallet again and took three singles out of it.
She took them. "There's a bathroom on each floor. On this floor it's the third door down the hall. Door's painted white, so you can't miss it. And there are two rules about bathrooms. One is, be sure you lock the door when you're it. I've got ladies and gentlemen rooming here and I don't want nobody embarrassed walking in."
"I'll lock the door," I said.
"Other rule is no baths between six and nine in the morning. That's when most of my tenants are getting ready to go to work and if somebody holds up the bathroom taking baths then, they can make somebody else late for work."
"Okay," I said. "Any other rules?"
"Guess that's all. I'm Mrs. Czerny. I'll have to have your name to put on the receipt."
"Hunter," I said. "Ed Hunter. But you needn't bother with a receipt. Isn't Czerny a Czech name? You don't look like a Czech."
"My husband was," she said. And added unemotionally, "Damn him." She started away and then turned back. I'll bring you a receipt anyway. I always make a receipt and keep a carbon. That way nobody gets mixed up as to how far anybody's paid or when the next rent's due." And then, as though the mention of the next rent made her think of it, she said, "You said you didn't know what hours you'd be working, Mr. Hunter. Does that mean you're not working now?"
"I just got into Chicago—from Gary. But I won't have any trouble finding a job, Mrs. Czerny. And anyway I've got enough to last me a while, even if I don't."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a printer," I told her.
"My husband was a printer," she said. And again added unemotionally, "Damn him."
It must have been a ritual, the adding of those two words every time she mentioned her husband or ex-husband. This time she turned and kept going, so I was able to grin while I wondered what her husband had been like, and whether he was dead or divorced. I followed her out into the hallway and brought back my suitcase. I closed the door and started unpacking, putting things into the dresser drawers and the closet. This time, since I was in no hurry, I checked what I'd used to fill the suitcase and decided I had enough of everything to last me at least a week. Except my toilet articles; I'd have to go back to pick them up. And a bathrobe; I'd want one in case I had to go to the bathroom down the hall in the middle of the night.
Mrs. Czerny came back just as I was finishing and brought me my receipt for thirteen dollars. But she didn't stay to talk.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was eight o'clock, only half an hour after Uncle Am's phone call. Probably it would be a couple of hours before Wanda came home, but then again the movie could be a stinker that she'd walk out on if she had good taste, and I didn't want to take a chance of missing getting a look at her as she came in.
I put a chair—there was one straight chair and one over-stuffed one in the room and I picked the overstuffed one—in position in front of my window and tried it. Yes, I'd be able to see anyone who turned in, through the thin curtain.
I set my door a bit ajar. The hallways and the stairs were uncarpeted. and by listening to footsteps I'd be able to tell at least approximately which room Wanda went to when she came in, particularly if it was on the first floor. By counting steps starting as they passed my door I'd be able to tell pretty accurately how much farther she'd gone.
Then I got comfortable in the chair and took up my vigil. I wished now that I'd thought to ask Uncle Am when he'd called me whether she'd changed clothes or coat when she'd come home before going to the movie, whether she'd added a hat or carried an umbrella. But I wasn't really worried about not being able to identify her. There probably wouldn't be another girl living here who'd come even close to her age-height-weight description and she couldn't have changed those factors.
After a while I remembered that I still had her application blank for the Starlock job in my pocket and realized this would be as good a time as any to study it, as long as I didn't let it distract me from my watching. I got it out and unfolded it.
There wasn't much on it that Starlock hadn't already told me. It was a standard application blank—Starlock doesn't hire enough people to have ones of his own printed—and, aside from the usual questions of age, sex, and what not, it had the usual spaces for employment record and references.
There wasn't any employment record; apparently her job with Starlock was the first one she'd ever held. After graduation from high school she'd taken a six-months business course—no doubt to qualify herself for a job in case of emergency, just the kind of emergency that had actually happened, and then had entered the Freeland Academy of Music and had attended it for two years. I wondered what instrument she played (maybe we could play duets?) and whether she was strictly longhair or liked progressive jazz too. Me, I like both but generally prefer listening to or trying to play jazz. In longhair, I go mostly for Stravinsky—but I don't try to play him on the trombone.
The references, all personal ones, were businessmen in Freeland, no doubt friends or acquaintances of her father. They wouldn't matter; she'd no doubt had to put them in because the form called for them, but Starlock already knew her and the circumstances about her; he wouldn't have called any of the references.
In the next couples of hours maybe a dozen people came in or went out or both; some of them were women but none could possibly have been Wanda.
She came and turned in the walk to the doorway and I didn't have the slightest doubt that it was she. She had changed coats, worn a raincoat instead of the shortie, but she didn't wear a hat or carry an umbrella; apparently she wasn't afraid of getting a little rain on her hair, and I liked that. It was beautiful chestnut hair, in a shoulder-length as Starlock had described it.
At that distance and through a curtain I couldn't see face too clearly, but I liked it. And even under a raincoat you could see that her hundred fifteen pounds was properly distributed over her five feet four inches. The door opened and closed and I could hear the click of her footsteps; they seemed to be heading toward the stairs but stopped before they got there. I was, by then, standing just inside my door to hear better and I heard the sound of the receiver being lifted off the wall telephone and then the sound of a dime being put into it.
And a moment's silence and then her voice. A nice voice, if a bit strained at the moment. Just loud enough for me to overhear, by trying hard. "This is the desk sergeant? My name is Wanda Rogers, one-eighty-six West Covent Place. Got that address down?
"Well, I want to report that a man just followed me home from a movie. I don't know whether he went on when I came in or whether he's loitering outside, but I'll appreciate it if you'll radio your squad car that's nearest here and have them check. . . . Description? He's about medium height, a little plump, has a mustache. He's wearing a brown suit and a black felt hat."
CHAPTER THREE
I swore to myself. She'd spotted Uncle Am. How, I didn't know; he's a damned good surveillance man. He'd almost never been spotted before on a tail job—and this was on the very first night of it. But I had to warn him; not knowing for sure whether or not I'd got the room he would loiter somewhere in the block, at least for a while until he felt reasonably sure the girl wasn't going out again.
I went through my door and the outer door and to the sidewalk and looked around. I saw him; there wasn't much cover in that block and he was standing in a shallow doorway on the other side of the street and a quarter of a block away. I walked a few steps toward him so I couldn't be seen from where Wanda was standing. I took a quick look around to make sure no one else was watching and then I made violent scramming motions at Uncle Am. He stepped out of the doorway and headed off, walking fast.
To make the story I was going to tell look good, I passed the one-eighty-six doorway again and went a few yards in the other direction; then came back and went in.
Wanda was still on the phone. She was giving the telephone number. Then she said, "It's a rooming house. But I'll stay here near the phone till you call back, if you'll have your radio car check right away. . . . Yes, I can identify him if they pick him up."
She hung up the receiver and turned to face me as I strolled back toward her along the hall.
"Excuse me," I said. "My door was ajar and I couldn't help hearing the call you just made. And I thought maybe I could be helpful—if there'd been a man outside I'd have held him till the police came. But there isn't anyone either loitering or walking anywhere in the block."
"Thank you," she said. She turned toward the phone then turned back. "But I guess it's too late to call it off now; they'll already have radioed the squad car, and besides— " She'd probably meant to say besides I might have missed seeing him and a squad car wouldn't, but that would have been impolite. "You shouldn't have taken a chance like that, though. What if he'd been there and was dangerous?"
I grinned a little. "I'm dangerous, too. By the way, my name is Ed Hunter. Just moved into the front room on this floor. And I heard you give your name as Wanda Rogers, I think. Was that right?"
She nodded. "Glad to know you, Mr. Hunter. And thanks again, but you shouldn't have taken a chance like that."
"No trouble," I said. "If it ever happens again, or if there's ever anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to call on me. I'm home most of the time. Have you been rooming here long?"
"A little less than a month."
I said, "That Mrs. Czerny is quite a character, isn't she? Oh, by the way, how are the breakfasts here? If you take them, that is. I signed up for them for a week, but I don't know whether I'll keep on after that."
"I don't have breakfast here, so I don't know. I never have more than coffee and a roll or doughnut for breakfast anyway so it's cheaper for me to have that on the way to work."
I'd wasted my three dollars—unless the six breakfasts I had coming turned out to be worth it. I managed to keep her talking—about nothing or about the rooming house — until the phone rang a few minutes later, and she answered it. "Yes, this is Wanda Rogers. . , . Well, thank you for trying. . . . Yes, I'm sure he followed me home, but he must have kept on going instead of waiting outside. . . . I'll do that. Good-by and thanks again."
And then to me, "Good night, Mr. Hunter." And she went up the stairs and that was that. Which, I considered, was more than I'd expected or even hoped to accomplish my first evening here. At least I'd met her and established contact. Uncle Am's fluff had turned out to be a break for me after all.
I went back to my own room, but walked quietly so I could listen to the sound of footsteps overhead. They seemed to go the length of the hallway on the second floor and didn't start up another flight of stairs. Probably her room was the second floor front, directly over mine. Back in my room I felt surer of it when I heard someone moving around overhead; I hadn't heard any sounds from that direction until now.
I decided to read a while, maybe an hour, and then go home to see Uncle Am. Even if he was asleep and I had to wake him, I wanted to check with him and report to him what had happened. Also, I must admit, to razz him a bit for letting himself be spotted on his first night on a tail job, and then to reassure him that it had turned out for the best.
I got one of the pocket books—I'd tossed them into the suitcase to help fill it—and started reading.
It was very quiet (no noise or music after ten) and although I wasn't especially listening for anything I heard, half an hour later, the sound of a woman's heels coming down the stairs and along the hall. It wasn't likely to be Wanda—surely she wouldn't be going out again tonight— but if it was she, that was something I should know about, even though I couldn't take the risk of going out after her and following her. So I quickly went to the window and took my post there so I could spot whoever was leaving.
But nobody was leaving. The footsteps stopped outside my door, and there was a soft knock.
I went to the door and opened it; Wanda stood there; looking, I thought, a little frightened. She'd changed to pajamas—but the housecoat she wore over them was at least as modest as a dress.
She said, "Mr. Hunter, you said if you could do me a favor—"
"Sure," I said. "Come in." And stepped back.
She came in and pushed the door partly shut, but not completely so, behind her. She said, "I think that man's again. I can't be absolutely sure, but I think there's someone in a doorway across the street and half a block east of here."
"Fine," I said. "I'll go see—" But I thought, surely Uncle Am wouldn't be silly enough to come back tonight after he knew I was here and after I'd once waved him off the surveillance. I reached for my suit coat and put it on. Because I'd intended to go out again anyway I hadn't undressed any farther than that.
"Wait," she said. "It's just this—I'm not sure enough to phone the police again, especially right after I gave them one false alarm. But I don't want you to take any chances, to try to hold him for them. Promise me you won't."
"All right," I said. "But if he sees me walking that way, it'll scare him off. Even if he's there now, he wouldn't be by the time you did phone the police again if I walk part-way there and then turn around and come back."
"But don't do it that way. Stay on this side of the street and don't even glance toward him except out of the corner of your eye. And go on past him—there's a drugstore on the corner of the next block; go in there and get a pack of cigarettes or something, and then come back, still on this side of the street. That's a natural enough thing to do, isn't it? And when you come back, if you say you've seen him, then I'll phone the police."
"Sure," I said. "You wait here." I gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and went out.
I walked the length of the block to the next corner, the drugstore, and didn't see anybody on either side of the She hadn't imagined Uncle Am the first time but this time she had imagined him, or had had an optical illusion of someone in a doorway where nobody was. But, imagination or illusion, I was getting a hell of a good break out of it; I was seeing a lot of Wanda Rogers tonight. I walked into my room and said, "Miss Rogers, there isn't—"
And stopped, just inside the doorway. Wanda Rogers was there, all right, sitting on the edge of my bed on the far side so that the bed was between us. But she had a gun in her hand, and the gun was aimed dead center at my solar plexus. The hand that held it was steady, and—worse—the gun was cocked. At that distance and with only the short trigger pull of a cocked revolver, she couldn't miss.
I didn't move.
The gun was my own, the one that had been in my shoulder holster in the dresser drawer, again under a pile of shirts. It was a short-barreled thirty-eight Police Positive and, at this short range, a howitzer wouldn't have been more dangerous.
I said, "Do you mind if I sit down?"
"Why?"
"Because if I sit down in that chair," I glanced toward it but moved only my head, "I'll be farther from you than I am now and especially if I'm sitting down you'll be less worried about my making a grab for the gun. Not that I would anyway, but—"
"All right, sit down." Her voice was perfectly calm. "But keep your hands where I can see them, on the arms of the chair."
I moved sidewise to the chair and sat in it, carefully keeping my hands in sight. The gun moved with me.
I said, "Now, one more thing. That gun hasn't exactly a hair trigger, but it takes only a very slight pull to shoot a cocked revolver; you could do it easily without intending to. If you decide to shoot me, all right, as long as you do it on purpose. But it would be a sad thing to have it happen accidentally. Would you mind moving it slightly off center, or uncocking it, one or the other? Either way, if I made a jump at you from this position, you'd have time to shoot twice."
She didn't uncock it, but the gun moved a little, just enough so it was aiming slightly to one side of me instead of dead center.
She said, "All right. Now talk. Who are you, Mr. Hunter?—if that's really your name."
"It's really my name," I said. "And you must have guessed that I'm a detective—and since you have guessed it, the jig is up and there's no reason why I shouldn't admit it. That ends my usefulness in this case—but so would your suspecting me, let alone your shooting me. Do you usually use guns on detectives? It's much easier just to refuse to talk to them. Unless they're police detectives, of course, and pull you in with a warrant and threaten to charge you with something if you don't talk. I'm not a police detective, incidentally, but a private one. What made you suspect me of being a detective at all?"
