Hark! by Ed McBain Page B

non-competitive skyline seemed modestly secure in its own stark beauty. And to their right, the city’s rooftops stretched far and away to the distant River Dix.
    â€œIs the building next door a doorman building?” Eileen asked.
    â€œDon’t think so,” the super said.
    â€œSo he could’ve got onto this roof from the one next door,” Willis said.
    â€œIf he was of a mind to, yes,” the super said.
    â€œCould’ve jumped right over.”
    â€œIf he was intent on doing mischief, yes.”
    They turned back to the door behind them.
    Someone had worked long and hard on the knob in order to get to the lock. Removed the knob, approached the lock from inside the door.
    â€œNo alarm on this door?” Willis said.
    â€œNo,” the super said.
    â€œYou ought to look into that,” Willis said.
    Why? Eileen wondered. Horse is already out of the barn.
    The super was thinking the same thing.
    â€œCan we go down to her apartment again?” Eileen asked.
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    T HIS TIME THEY CONCENTRATED on the door and the lock. And this time, now that they were looking for them, they found the discreet marks a burglar’s jimmy had left. So now they knew how he’d got in. Jumped onto the roof from the building next door, forced the lock on the roof door, did the same thing to the lock on Gloria Stanford’s apartment. Was waiting for her when she got home that day. He’d used a gun with a silencer, Ballistics had confirmed that. So no one had heard any shots, no one had raised an alarm. Had he left the building the same way he’d got in? Probably. Easy come, easy go.
    They thanked the super for his time, and left 1113 Silvermine Oval.
    â€œWant to do a canvass next door?” Willis asked.
    â€œI doubt if anyone spotted him going in or out,” she said. “But if you want to knock on doors, I’m with you.”
    â€œFor the sake of closure,” he said.
    â€œI hate that word,” she said. “Closure.”
    â€œSo do I.”
    â€œIt’s a lawyer’s word.”
    â€œI also hate lawyers,” Willis said.
    â€œMe, too.”
    They were out on the street now. It was almost three-thirty. Their shift was almost over.
    â€œSo what do you say?”
    â€œLet’s do it,” she said. “Keep the Loot happy.”
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    T HE D EAF M AN’S third and final note that day cleared up any lingering doubt that he was trying to spear the word spear , so to speak:
    Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-grass to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it and swear it was the blood of true men.
    â€œWhat the hell is spear-grass?” Parker asked.
    â€œSome kind of grass they have over there in England,” Genero said.
    â€œHow do you happen to know that?”
    â€œCommon sense. If it’s Shakespeare, it has to be England.”
    â€œThis doesn’t even look like Shakespeare,” Hawes said.
    â€œThat’s right. It’s not even poetry.”
    â€œShakespeare also wrote prose,” Carella said.
    â€œAnd this time, there is a message,” Kling said, “prose or whatever.”
    â€œWhat’s prose?” Genero asked.
    â€œWhat’s the message?” Hawes asked.
    â€œThat it’s all fake. He’s misleading us. It’s slander, the venom’d spear. It’s a lie again.”
    â€œSame as always.”
    â€œTickle your noses to make them bleed…”
    â€œMust be some kind of sharp grass, don’t you think? That spear-grass?”
    â€œâ€¦and then beslubber your garments…”
    â€œI love that word.”
    â€œSounds like be slobber ,” Brown said. “Beslobber the Johnson…”
    â€œBe slubber the garments…”
    â€œThe clothes…”
    â€œâ€¦with the blood from the nose, make it look like battle wounds. That’s what he’s saying. It’s all fake. He’s leading us to spear , but