Stan took out his handkerchief to mop at the sweat on his forehead. “I never saw it fail,” he said. “The more you think about a deal like this, the more ways you see how it might have happened. But what bothers me is that there weren't any letters or papers or anything like that. Hell, there wasn't even so much as a phone bill or a post card from her Aunt Hattie.”

  “You look under the paper liners in the drawers?”

  “I looked everywhere, Pete; I didn't miss a trick.”

  “How about that bathroom out in the hall?”

  “From top to bottom, flushbox and all.” He grinned. “And in between times, while I was resting. I took a look at that empty store upstairs. And that's what it is, too: empty. Couple pieces of ballet stuff in the display window and that's all. There's no way anybody could have got in, and no way they could have got to here from there, if they did.”

  “You think a woman could have hoisted her up on that pipe, Stan?” I asked.

  “A woman? You kidding? A tall girl like that would weigh about a hundred and twenty-five pounds. Another woman might be able to lift her, but hoisting her up to that pipe and holding her there while she tied the rope would be something else. She'd have to hold all that weight with one arm while she tied a knot in the rope with her other hand.” He shook his head. “Uh-uh, Pete.”

  I glanced at the end of my cigar, decided I hadn't chewed it too much to be smokable, and struck a match to it.

  “How'd you make out with your girl friend down the hail?” Stan asked.

  I gave him the gist of my talk with Judy Bowman and then went back to make certain I hadn't missed anything.

  When I finished, Stan said, “You think she might know more than she's letting on, Pete?”

  “I don't know. That's just one of the little items we'll have to straighten out.”

  “What do you figure Nadine was running in there? It doesn't sound like a whorehouse, and it sure doesn't look like any shooting gallery. How do you hunch it, Pete?”

  “I don't,” I said. “If she'd stayed in her apartment while her company was there, it'd be different. But she didn't.”

  “Well, that's one problem we haven't got,” he said. “All we have to do is talk to that redhead in the antique shop. The one your girl friend saw in the hall.”

  “Unless, of course, she was simply making a perfectly normal call of some kind,” I said. “People sometimes do that, you know.”

  “That leaves us with Marty and Clifford,” Stan said. “And only one name for each.”

  “I'm going to take a walk down to the antique shop,” I said. “While I'm gone, see if the techs have finished with the phone, and then call the squad commander and tell him what we've got. He'll want to take us off the duty roster and so on. And then call the phone company and ask for a list of all the toll calls made on Nadine's phone during the last three months. We're almost certain to get a line on somebody that way; maybe we'll even get a lead to Clifford or Marty.”

  “I never saw it otherwise,” Stan said. “You talk to all the women and I do all the dirty work. It just doesn't seem right.”

  “That's funny—it seems right to me,” I said. “The techs come up with anything?”

  “Not much. They lifted a couple of pretty fair prints off that bottle of whisky Nadine had on her dresser, but they don't hold out much hope for them.”

  “Why not?”

  “The finger span's too narrow. They figure they're probably Nadine's.”

  “And that's all they've got?”

  “That's it. Two pretty good fingerprints and about two thousand smears. You know how it is.”

  “Well, I'd better head for that antique shop,” I said. “Hold on to the hangrope and petticoat, Stan; we'll want to book them as evidence.”

  “Yes, sir, Detective Selby. Was there anything else?”

  “Not that I can think of offhand,” I said, turning to leave. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Sure you will,” Stan said. “You and all those women.”

  Chapter Four

  THE PEDRICK ANTIQUE SHOP on the corner contained a few large pieces and an almost incredible number of smaller ones. Every wall was festooned with brackets and shelves, and the ceiling was completely obscured by lamps and lanterns of every conceivable kind and weathervanes in every form, from mermaids to the angel Gabriel blowing his horn.

  I made my way down a narrow aisle, turned right, and came out at a surprisingly modern-looking desk in the middle of a small clearing.

  The woman working at the desk was somewhere in her late thirties, a redhead with very white skin, widely set green eyes, and a mouth that looked as if it could grow hard with no trouble at all. She was holding a small artist's brush, dusting carefully around the raised figures on what appeared to be some kind of urn.

  I cleared my throat.

  She glanced up at me and smiled. “I'm sorry,” she said, starting to rise. “I didn't realize anyone had come in.”

  “Don't bother to get up,” I said.

  She sank back down and her smile widened a little.” What can I do for you?”

  I gestured toward the urn. “Very pretty,” I said.

  She nodded proudly. “Yes, isn't it? Jasperware like this is all too rare. This is late eighteenth century.”

  “Are you the proprietor?”

  “Yes. I'm Mrs. Pedrick.”

  “I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Pedrick.”

  “About antiques? Why, of course.”

  “About Nadine Ellison,” I said. “I understand you're acquainted with her.” I showed her my badge.

  The smile stayed on her lips a full five seconds after it had left her eves. “You're a detective?”

  “Detective Selby, Sixth Precinct.”

  “But why in the world... What's happened?”

  “We're not quite sure,” I said.

  “Is Nadine in some kind of trouble?”

  “No.”

  I hadn't been wrong about her mouth; it grew hard with no difficulty whatever.

  “Then just what is all this?” she demanded. “If Nadine's not in any trouble, then why—”

  “It's generally best to leave most of the questions to the police,” I said. “When was the last time you saw Nadine, Mrs. Pedrick?”

  She glared at me. “Not in ages,” she said, starting to get up again.

  “Keep your seat, please, Mrs. Pedrick,” I said. “You saw her yesterday afternoon. It was somewhere around two o'clock.”

  She sat down heavily, and suddenly her face seemed a great deal older. “That little dark-eyed witch down the hall!” she said, almost inaudibly. “She's the one; she has to be.”

  “Maybe I'd better lock the door,” I said. “That way we won't be interrupted.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, perhaps you'd better.”

  I walked back to the street door, threw the latch, pulled down the shade over the glass, and came back to the desk.

  “Nadine a friend of yours?” I asked, sitting down on the edge of the desk.

  She nodded. “In a way—yes.”

  “You seem reluctant to talk about her. Why so?”

  “It's so... well, so personal.”

  “What's your first name, Mrs. Pedrick?” I asked.

  “Iris.”

  “And your husband's?”

  “George.” She said the name firmly enough, but there was something about the way her eyes darted away from mine for an instant that made me decide to change the direction of my interrogation.

  “George approve of Nadine, does he?” I asked.

  “He—he doesn't know her.”

  “In fact,” I said, throwing it away, “George doesn't even know about her.”

  She glanced at me sharply, then looked away again and shook her head. “Of course he doesn't know about her,” she said. “There's no need to play cat and mouse with me, Mr. Selby.”

  It was going much better than I'd had any right to expect. “There'll be no cat and mouse,” I said. “There'll be no trick questions and no fancy fencing technique. I'll ask some straight questions, and I'll expect some straight answers.” I paused. “Do we understand each other, Mrs. Pedrick?”

  Her eyes were stricken. “Is there any way I can keep this from my husband?”

  “You should have thought of that before,” I said.

  “People are human,” she said. “They do human things.”

  “Everything will depend entirely on how straight you talk.” I said. “We know a lot about Nadine Ellison, but we want to know more. We want to know everything you can tell us.”

  “It's not myself I'm worried about,” she said dismally. “It's George. If he found out that I.... “ She suddenly raised her hands to the top of the desk and clenched them together so tightly that the knuckles grew bone-white. “I'm not overstating it, Mr. Selby. If my husband found out about me, it would kill him.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “What—what do you want to know?” she asked.

  “Everything,” I said. “You might begin with how you met her, and then give me sort of a freehand sketch of what happened, from then on up till now.”

  “Can you promise me that George won't...?”

  “The promises will depend,” I said. “I've already told you that.

  “She bit at her lower lip for a few moments, then sighed resignedly and unclenched her hands. “I met her right here in the shop. I needed a girl to help out for a few days, and she was the first to answer my ad.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “You got along well, did you?”

  “Yes. She's a very lovely and charming girl.” She hesitated.

  “All right, Mrs. Pedrick, go ahead.”

  “Well, we became friends—confidantes, really—almost right away. One thing led to another, and when she learned that I had a friend, she suggested that I might like to borrow her apartment.”

  I nodded, as if she were merely confirming something I already knew.

  “My husband has been ill for a long time,” she went on. “For several years. I... well, otherwise, I would have had no friend.”

  “I'm only a cop, Mrs. Pedrick,” I said. “Not a judge.”

  “To make it brief, I called my friend, and we went over to Nadine's apartment that same afternoon. From then on, we went there often—at least two or three times a week.”

  “Right up till yesterday afternoon?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And always with the same friend?”

  “Yes, always.”

  “What's his name?”

  “Do you absolutely have to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dycer,” she said. “Eddie Dycer.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Her eyes strayed to the front of the shop and back again. “He tends bar across the street. In the Hi-Lo.”

  I got out my notebook. “Miss Ellison seems to have been a very generous girl,” I said. “And not only with you.”

  “You mean the way she loaned out her apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “I paid her,” she said. “After the first two or three times we went over there, she began hinting around a bit.” She shrugged. “It was an inconvenience, of course-and I did appreciate it.”

  “How much did she charge you?”

  “The first few times it was five dollars. Then she raised it to ten.”

  “For how much time?”

  “An hour or two, usually. Sometimes it was even less. It all depended on how soon someone else wanted it.”

  “Is that just about what she was charging the others?”

  “I really don't know. She never told me.”

  “Has she worked anywhere else, Mrs. Pedrick?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Isn't ten dollars for an hour or two's privacy pretty steep? For only a little more than half of that, you and your friend could have rented a hotel room for twenty-four hours.”

  “It's not a question of money,” she said. “It's simply that I couldn't take a chance on anyone seeing me at a hotel. My husband has friends all over town, and so do I. At Nadine's, I was safe.”

  “What this boils down to,” I said, “is that Nadine makes a business of renting her apartment out for assignations.”

  She nodded silently.

  “And a very good business, too,” I said. “She must be raking it in hand over fist.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “How much has she told you about herself?” I asked.

  “Very little.”

  “I thought you said you were confidantes.”

  “Yes, I know. But I'm afraid I confided a great deal more in her than she ever did in me.”

  “She ever tell you about singing with dance bands out on the West Coast?”

  “Why, no.”

  “She ever mention anything about music or musicians?”

  “I don't think so.” She looked at me puzzledly. “You know, that's very strange. I recall distinctly her telling me that she'd always wanted to make a trip to California some time. She said she was one of these people who have never been west of Jersey, and that she'd often wondered what the rest of the country was really like.”

  “You know where she's from?”

  “She always talks as if she had been born right here in New York.”

  “You acquainted with her husband?”

  “I wasn't aware she had one.”

  “When Nadine rented you her apartment, did she just leave her door open for you, or give you her key, or what?”'

  “Well, first I'd call her to see whether it was all right to come over. When I got there, she'd give me her key and leave.”

  “You and your friend go there together?”

  “No. We'd go separately.”

  “And when you left, what then?”

  “One or the other of us would have a certain place and a certain time to meet Nadine and return her key.”

  “Where was this?”

  “I didn't mean there was a specific place. It could be almost anywhere. What we'd do was agree on the place and time.”

  “I see. Did you ever meet any of her other customers?”

  “No.”

  “All this is very important, Mrs. Pedrick.”

  “I realize that.”

  “You have any idea who any of these other people might be?”

  “No.”

  “How about Nadine's other friends or relatives? She ever mention them?”

  “No.”

  “That's not very likely,” I said. “Do you mean to tell me that, in all the time you knew her, she never once—”

  “I'm telling you the truth,” she broke in. “I know how improbable that sounds. But that's the way it is.”

  “You know a man named Marty? He's a friend of Nadine's.”

  She pursed her lips. “Marty? No, I don't believe I do.”

  “How about a man named Clifford?”

  She thought about it for a while, then shook her head.

  I glanced at my watch. So far, I'd learned why Nadine Ellison had had so-much company. But that was about all. I was getting nowhere, and getting there very slowly. It seemed to me that the time had come for a completely different approach.

  “Nadine is dead, Mrs. Pedrick,” I said. “She's been murdered.”

  It was as if I'd just called her the most insulting name I could think of. She cringed back from me, face working with shock, her eyes probing mine almost beseechingly; it was as if she half expected me to tell her I was sorry, that I hadn't really meant what I'd said at all.

  “Nadine?” she whispered. “Nadine murdered?”

  I didn't say anything. Somewhere across the city a siren suddenly keened into life, and I sat listening to it as it rose and fell, wondering vaguely what kind of squeal it was, what kind of trouble.

  “Who—” Mrs. Pedrick began. Then she shook her head incredulously. “It just doesn't seem possible. Who killed her?”

  “That's what I'm trying to find out,” I said. “But don't be too upset, Mrs. Pedrick. This particular talk is just routine.”

  She sat very rigid, her palms pressed flat on the top of the desk. “It just doesn't seem possible,” she said again.

  “I don't like to keep pushing the question,” I said, “but it has to be done. Do you have any ideas about who might have wanted her dead?”

  Her shoulders seemed to have slumped a little. “No,” she said. “It's hard to imagine anyone even disliking her.”

  “She ever say she was in any kind of trouble?”

  “No, never.”

  “She ever mention any threats on her life?”

  “Good heavens, no. Why should anyone threaten a girl like Nadine?”

  “I wish I knew. If I did, I might have a lot longer lead on who killed her.” I paused. “Think back very carefully now, Mrs. Pedrick. Can you recall anything at all that might have some connection with this homicide? Something you saw or overheard, for instance. Or maybe just something you had a feeling about. Anything.”

  She didn't answer for such a long time that I felt it necessary to prompt her.

  “Well?” I said.

  “No—not unless you'd consider a prowler—”

  “Prowler?”

  “But this has been some time ago,” she said. “Do you think it's important?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Well, it happened when I stayed all night at Nadine's. My friend—”

  “You spent the entire night there?”

  “Yes. Nadine was going off somewhere for the week end, and she said that, if my friend and I wanted to, we could stay all night.”

  “Just a minute,” I said. “When was this?”

  “About three weeks ago. No; it was about a month.”

  “All right, go on.”

  “Well, Eddie had to leave about three o'clock, but I stayed in bed. I don't know just how long it was after he left, but suddenly I woke up and saw this man. At first I thought it was Eddie. It was dark and I started to turn on the light and say something to him. But then I realized he had a flashlight and that he was much too broad-shouldered to be Eddie. I—I was so terrified I couldn't even scream.”

  “What'd this man look like?”

 

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