But I didn’t dare attempt to do any of those things. What if Lillian’s prints were on the receiver and I destroyed them by touching the phone? What if her prints were on the desk drawers, too? And what if Roscoe didn’t have Lillian listed in his address book? What if he didn’t even have an address book? My hands were tied. I couldn’t take the risk of destroying evidence while looking for it.
Deciding I should get out of there (fast) and call the police (anonymously) from another location, I stepped out of the room, returned the door to its original near-closed position, and made a hasty exit—leaving everything at Chelsea Realty just the way I’d found it. Then I dashed back out to Seventh Avenue and started walking (okay, sprinting) downtown, thinking I’d find at least one open candy store or coffee shop with a public phone.
No such luck. Every store I passed—including Henry’s Hardware, where I’d bought Lenny’s lunchbox—was closed up tight. I hurried all the way down to 24th Street before realizing the only open facility with a public phone I was likely to find would be a subway station. So I took off running, as fast as I could, toward the IRT entrance at 23rd Street.
But halfway there, I had another realization. All I had in my purse was one fifty-cent piece and a dime! And the subway change booths wouldn’t be open yet (if they opened at all on Christmas Day)! And if I used the dime to telephone the police, I wouldn’t be able to catch a train home (half dollars don’t fit in the turnstile slots)! I considered going straight home and calling the police from my apartment, but I really hated that idea. I felt the police should be notified immediately—and who knew how long I’d have to wait for a train? And what if the cops were able to trace the call back to me?
Aaaargh!
I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when a brilliant (okay, beefheaded) solution suddenly occurred to me. John Wayne! I cried to myself. The Duke will save the day!
I turned on my heels and hit the trail back up to 26th Street, where I made a sharp left and galloped for Elsie Londergan’s apartment.
SHE ANSWERED RIGHT AFTER I BUZZED. ”Who’s there?” she snapped, voice spooky over the crackling intercom.
“Elsie, Elsie! It’s me, Paige Turner! Please let me in! It’s an emergency!”
She didn’t say anything more. She just buzzed the door open and I lunged inside. I was up the stairs in a flash. Elsie was standing tall in her open doorway, fully dressed in a green pleated skirt and a dark red cable stitch sweater. She even had on her lipstick. What is she doing up so early? I wondered. Rushing out to a Christmas morning Mass? Tearing off to a sunrise canasta game?
Elsie took one look at me and croaked, “What’s the matter with you?! You look like you just saw the devil!” She pulled me inside and locked the door behind us.
“Oh, Elsie!” I cried, shuddering, still huffing from my wild race up the stairs. “I did just see the devil! And he’s dead!”
“Well, that’s good news for all of us,” she said, smiling, humoring me, giving her permanent waves a girlish pat. “So what’s the big emergency? What got you out of bed at this ungodly hour? Come sit down and tell me all about it.” She led me into the sitting room and motioned for me to take a chair.
“I can’t sit down, Elsie,” I said, still gasping for air, pacing in circles around the tiny room. “I have to call the police to report a murder. It’s your landlord! Roscoe Swift! He’s been shot!”
Her smile crumpled and her blue eyes widened in shock. “Roscoe? Shot? Are you sure? I can’t believe it!” She lowered herself into one of the two chintz-covered wing chairs that took up half the room and snatched a cigarette from the silver box on the table between them. Striking a match with unexpected force, she lit up and exhaled loudly. “How do you know about this?” she asked. “Did you see the body?”
“Yes! I did! Roscoe’s lying dead on the floor of his office, with one bullet hole in his chest and one in his neck. It’s horrible! Can I use your phone? I’ve got to notify the police.”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s on the night table in the bedroom. The number for the police station is there, too, on the pad right next to the telephone. I’ve been keeping it handy ever since Judy was killed.”
How convenient.
I charged into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the made-up bed, snatched up the receiver, and dialed the number on the pad. It rang about forty times. I was beginning to think the whole department had taken the day (or the night, or whatever) off, when a gruff voice finally answered.
“I’m calling to report a murder,” I said, in the steadiest, most masterful tone I could muster. (I was trying to imitate Perry Mason, but in my addled and breathless condition I probably sounded more like Daffy Duck.) “Please take this information down, sir. A man named Roscoe Swift has been shot to death on West 27th Street. The body can be found in the back room of the Chelsea Realty office.” I gave him the exact address, told him the office was unlocked, and begged him to send somebody in a hurry.
“Did you get all that down?” I asked. “Should I repeat the information?”
“I got everything, sister,” the gruff voice said. “Everything but your name and location. Who are you and where are you? How do you know the victim is dead? Did you discover the body? Are you calling from the scene?”
“Yes. I discovered the body, and I’m certain the victim is dead. I left the scene exactly as I found it. Please send a team out right away.” I hung up before he could ask for my name again.
I hated having to handle things in this cowardly, dishonest way. I wanted to get Detective Sweeny on the line, give him my true identity (as well as a big piece of my mind), and then tell him about everything that had happened since Terry Catcher first came to me and asked me to help him find his sister’s murderer. But I couldn’t do it. It was way too chancy. What if Sweeny refused to follow up on any of my leads, or acknowledge a connection between Roscoe’s and Judy’s homicides? What if he ignored all the data I’d gathered and continued to insist that Judy was shot during a random burglary? What if he demanded that the diamonds be returned to the police, and then threw Terry in jail for tampering with evidence? What if Sweeny told me—as he had told Elsie when she dared to question his facile conclusions about Judy’s murder—to stop being a busybody?
Then I’d have to kill him,and that wouldn’t do anybody any good.
Heaving a loud sigh of resignation, I stood up from Elsie’s bed and turned back toward the sitting room, head lowered in fatigue and dismay. I was in such a zombie daze that, even though I was standing right next to Elsie’ s bedroom wastebasket, and staring straight down at the wastebasket’s colorful, crumpled contents, I didn’t really see what I was seeing.
It took a few seconds for the ripped, partially wadded-up scraps of paper to come into focus. And a few more moments passed before the bold, familiar image printed on those scraps of paper began to register in my fuzzy brain: the curly white beard, the plump pink cheeks, the twinkling blue eyes, the bright red suit and cap, the big round belly like a bowl full of jelly. It was m y Santa Claus—the very same one that was pictured, repeatedly, on my Christmas wrapping paper.
The very same paper I had used to wrap up Lenny’s lunchbox.
A string of firecrackers went off in my brain. Elsie? Pop! Could it have been Elsie? Pop! Did Elsie steal the lunchbox and push me down onto the subway tracks? Pop! Did Elsie break into my apartment? Pop! Did Elsie kill Judy? And Roscoe, too? Pop! Pop! Pop! My head was so full of explosive questions I thought it would blast right off my neck.
“So what happened?” Elsie said, suddenly appearing in the doorless archway between the bedroom and the sitting room. “Was that Sweeny you were talking to? What did the dumbbell dick have to say?”
“It wasn’t Sweeny,” I mumbled, frantically trying to pull myself together. “It was somebody else. I told him about the homicide and they’re sending a team out right away.” So much adrenaline was shooting down my spine I was having trouble standing.
“Hey, you lo
ok horrible, Paige!” Elsie said. “Are you all right? You better come sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She put her arm around my shoulders and tried to guide me into the sitting room.
“No!” I cried, recoiling from her touch. “I can’t stay! I’ve got to get home!” Translation: I don’t drink tea with murderers.
“But you should rest a while first. You’ve had a big shock. You look as pale as a ghost.”
Oh, yeah? Well, that’s better than actually being a ghost—which might become my fate if I stay here any longer . . .
“Just one cup of tea,” she insisted. “That’ll fix you up.”
“Thanks, Elsie,” I said, through clenched teeth, “but I really have to go home now and put my turkey in the oven. It’s Christmas Day!”
Put my turkey in the oven? I screeched to myself. What a nitwit thing to say! I couldn’t have come up with a sillier excuse if my life depended on it! (Which—I thought at the time—could very well be the case!)
If Elsie noticed my frantic flight into absurdity, she didn’t let on. She had taken off on a frantic flight of her own. “But you haven’t told me what’s going on!” she shrieked, jutting her chiseled John Wayne chin in my direction. “What the hell made you go to the realty office so early this morning? Did you know something was going to happen? Do you know who killed Roscoe?” She narrowed her big blue eyes into slits so thin they were knifelike.
“I don’t know who killed him for sure,” I blurted, “but I have a hunch it was Lillian Smythe.” I gave Elsie this tid bit just to throw her off the track. If she caught on that I was beginning to suspect her (Elsie, that is), my goose could be cooked long before my turkey.
Elsie pulled in her chin and wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Huh?” she said, looking like Elmer Fudd after yet another baffling skirmish with Bugs Bunny. “Lillian who?”
“I can’t explain it all right now!” I sputtered, forging my way back through the sitting room and the kitchen with Elsie hot on my heels. “It’s a long, complicated story, and I don’t have time!” I opened the door and stepped out into the hall. “But don’t worry, Elsie, I’ll phone you later and tell you all about it.” Forcing my lips to form a big bogus smile, I waved bye-bye and made a mad dash for the stairway. “Merry Christmas!” I called out as I began my descent.
If Elsie wished me a happy holiday in return, I didn’t hear it. She must have been whispering.
Chapter 30
ON THE WAY HOME IN THE SUBWAY I MADE a firm decision. I would tell Dan everything about the Judy Catcher homicide today, as soon as he arrived at my apartment. I would tell him how Terry and Abby and I had launched a murder investigation of our own, and I would give him the lowdown on everything that had happened before and since. Dan would be really angry with me, and it would ruin our first Christmas together—maybe even make it our last Christmas together—but I couldn’t keep up the charade any longer. Somebody had tried to kill me, and somebody had succeeded in killing Roscoe, and the time had come to bring the police in on the case.
(Okay, okay! You’re absolutely right! I should have told Dan long ago—before I was almost obliterated by the uptown express, and before poor Roscoe was eliminated. And, looking back, I’m really, really sorry I didn’t. But hindsight is always clearer than foresight—especially my foresight—and since Sweeny had already dropped the case, I truly thought Terry and Abby and I were doing the right thing. But that’s a lousy excuse, I know—even lousier than my stupid turkey-in-the-oven routine. Because any way you look at it, I was a selfish fool and a raving idiot to let my pursuit of the story—and my burning desire to keep it secret from Dan—get in the way of a full-fledged professional search for the killer.)
Filled with contrition and new determination, I got off the train at Sheridan Square, made a beeline down to Bleecker, and hurried home.
It was starting to get light outside, but no lights were on in Abby’s apartment, so I knew the lovebirds weren’t up and chirping yet. As soon as I let myself into the building, though, and climbed the stairs to the landing between our apartments, I started banging on Abby’s door instead of unlocking mine. I didn’t care if they were awake yet or not. I needed a team conference, and I needed it now.
It took forever, but I kept right on banging and shouting, until Abby finally made her way downstairs and yanked the door open. “What?!” she screeched. “What the hell’s going on?!” Her eyes were puffy with sleep, her tangled hair was tumbling over both shoulders, and all she was wearing was Uncle Morty’s tuxedo shirt, which barely covered her bare bottom—a fact I didn’t notice until she spun away from me and padded barefoot to the kitchen counter. “What are you yelling about? What the hell time is it?” She pulled the top off the coffee pot, slammed it down on the counter, and started filling the pot with water.
“Six-fifteen,” I said, looking at the clock on her kitchen wall.
“In the fucking morning?!”
“Yep,” I said, “but it feels like noon to me. I’ve been up for hours.”
Abby whipped her head around and gave me a doubtful look. Then, as she took in the fact that I was, indeed, up, and fully dressed—even wearing my coat, beret, and snowboots—her look turned to sheer surprise. “You went out? In the middle of the night? You weren’t supposed to leave this apartment! Did anything happen? Where have you been?” She was screeching again.
“I’ve been uptown,” I said, “and a lot has happened. But I really can’t bear to explain the whole thing twice. So do me a favor, will you? Go upstairs, wake up Terry, and then bring him down here for a council. And put some clothes on while you’re up there! I’ll finish making the coffee.”
I must have been acting much more authoritative than usual, because Abby didn’t give me any of her usual back talk. She just set the coffee pot down on the counter, pulled her wild hair back off her shoulders, scooted over to the foot of the stairs, and hauled her bare bottom to the top.
“SO THAT’S THE WHOLE STORY,” I SAID, winding up my detailed summary of the early morning’s untimely events. Abby and Terry were each on their third cup of coffee, I had just finished my first. “I feel certain there was a strong connection between Roscoe Swift and Lillian Smythe,” I added, “but I’m not sure what it was. Maybe it had something to do with Judy’s murder and the diamonds, or maybe it didn’t. Whatever the case, they must have had a very emotional and volatile relationship for him to yell at her the way he did.”
“Yeah, and that’s why she killed him!” Abby hissed, gesturing wildly with her hands. “I’ve got the whole deal figured out! First Lillian convinced Roscoe to kill Judy and get her mother’s diamonds back for her. She probably promised him one of the bracelets for his trouble. But when Roscoe couldn’t find the jewelry—either in Judy’s apartment, or in Lenny’s lunchbox, or in your apartment, Paige—he demanded that Lillian pay him anyway. And so the little Nazi slut killed him—to keep him from hounding her, and to make sure he would never, ever, ever be able to tell anybody what really happened!”
Terry looked at Abby and let out a dramatic groan. “You know what I think, Ab? I think jumping to conclusions has become your favorite sport.”
“So what?” Abby snapped. “Somebody’s got to jump at something around here! Where’s your goddamn chutzpah, Whitey? The way you and Paige keep pussyfooting around, saying that we don’t have enough hard evidence, we’re never going to come to any conclusions at all!”
Oh, dear. Were they working up to having their first lovers’ spat? I certainly hoped not. I didn’t have time for this!
“Well, I have jumped to a conclusion now,” I exclaimed, dropping my fist like a gavel on the tabletop. “And I’m sorry to disagree with you, Abby, but I really don’t think Lillian is the killer. I’m beginning to think it’s Elsie.”
“For cripesakes, why?!” Abby blustered. “Just because of that stupid wrapping paper?”
“Well, yes, but . . .”
“That dreck doesn’t prove diddly!” she broke in, hands flapp
ing in the air like agitated birds. “That Santa Claus paper’s all over town! Woolworth’s sells it by the mile. Elsie was probably using it to wrap her own presents . . . or maybe she got a gift that was wrapped in the same gaudy stuff!”
Gaudy? Did Abby just call my Christmas paper gaudy? Guess I’d better find something else to wrap her gaudy lingerie in.
“Abby’s right,” Terry said, giving me a patronizing look. “The gift-wrapping in Elsie’s wastebasket is not conclusive. It could have been there by pure coincidence.”
“And besides,” Abby interjected, “Elsie didn’t have near as clear a motive as Lillian!” She was still intent on casting the prejudiced Miss Smythe in the role of the killer. “Lillian hated Judy for sleeping with her father, and she wanted to get her mother’s jewelry back. What could Elsie’s motive have been?”
I couldn’t believe she was asking that question. “I feel safe in declaring,” I said with a sniff, “that the motive for Judy’s murder was the diamonds—no matter who the murderer turns out to be. Maybe Elsie wanted to become rich as much as Lillian wanted to stay rich.”
“Oh, well, okay!” Abby said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “But then how does Roscoe Swift enter the picture? You can’t possibly believe that Elsie killed him, too!”
“Well, yes, I do,” I said.
“You’re walking on the weird side now,” Terry said, raising one of his thick black eyebrows and shaking his head in doubt.
“What’s weird is the fact that Elsie was fully dressed when I got to her apartment,” I insisted. “And her bed was made up too. And it was five-thirty in the morning! I would swear she’d been up for hours—or at least long enough to slip around the corner and kill Roscoe.”
Murder is a Girl's Best Friend Page 27