fingerprints, so Olney instructed his men to put on their gloves for the search. I churned through my purse, retrieved a pair of white gloves I’d bought a few years earlier at B. Altman in New York, and pulled them on. Pat Halvey was assigned to the office; Pulaski and Wycek to the guest rooms; Spagnola and Miller to comb the grounds, especially the area near the garbage enclosure. Vinnie Brunello drew the chore of keeping Jean Trent at bay while Frank and I went through her place.
Jean’s inner sanctum was a cluttered nest of True Police Cases magazines, TV Guides , old newspapers, and half-eaten boxes of chocolate samplers. The stuffed couch, stained and brown, listed to the right, standing on three legs and a stack of dog-eared pulp novels. A coffee table, its veneer ringed and chipped, was moored on the dingy braided rug that stretched between the couch and the seventeen-inch, portable Zenith. On the walls, two yellowing landscapes, cut from a magazine, had curled out of their frames, showing cinderblock underneath. Atop a chest of drawers against the wall, Jean Trent’s pale eyes stared across the room from a recent black-and-white photograph. The place smelled of menthol cigarettes, mildew, and hairspray.
Training his sights on the drawers, Frank Olney pulled a pair of leather gloves onto his bearish hands and invited me to help him turn the place upside down. I made a quick survey of the room while Frank rummaged. There was a heap of Pall Mall and Salem butts crammed together in the standing ashtray next to the lumpy couch, and five empty Rheingold bottles stood like duckpins on the floor. I pulled a couple of magazines from between the cushions of the couch, flipped through them absently, then tossed them back to where I’d found them. I lifted a corner of the rug, was frightened by what I saw, and dropped it. A close inspection of Jean’s photograph convinced me it had been developed by an amateur—no quality judgment intended. I slid the back off the frame to look for a dedication or note, but the only words I found were “Kodak Paper.”
“I’m going to have a look in the bedroom and bath,” I told Frank, who interrupted his burrowing long enough to remind me to keep my gloves on.
Jean Trent’s double bed, quilted satin cover and all, nearly filled her boudoir wall to wall. There was barely room for a wastebasket and a nightstand. I discovered her clothes in a small closet, hidden behind a crooked folding door. On the shelf inside, there was a shoebox filled with yellowing letters, creased snapshots, and memorabilia of what looked like a mostly forgettable life. Under the bed, dust colonies had long since prevailed over broom and mop, staking their claim to that netherworld. And there was a small strongbox amid the dirt. The lock was broken. Inside was a gun: a small, black Clerke revolver, unloaded but with a box of .22-caliber bullets. There was also an envelope with the gun’s registration papers, made out in the name of Jean Marie Trent. Everything looked in order, and Frank confirmed it when I showed him. He vaguely remembered having approved the permit a few years earlier.
“What should I do with it?” I asked.
“Leave it where you found it,” he said. “Jordan Shaw wasn’t killed with a gun.”
The bathroom was easily the cleanest room in the place. I smelled the ammonia and soap, used liberally during a very recent cleaning frenzy. The sink was ordered and scrubbed to a shine. The dull linoleum countertop was spotless, though bleached and discolored in places. My heels scratched over the remnants of a gritty cleanser left on the tiled floor. The grimy porcelain of the toilet and the mildewed tub, however, revealed the same neglect Jean Trent displayed in the rest of her housekeeping. Why clean only half of the bathroom? The room smelled clean, all right, but the caustic detergents could scarcely cover the familiar odor of hypo underneath. I had lived with that smell for years.
Jean’s inner sanctum was a cluttered nest of True Police Cases magazines, TV Guides , old newspapers, and half-eaten boxes of chocolate samplers. The stuffed couch, stained and brown, listed to the right, standing on three legs and a stack of dog-eared pulp novels. A coffee table, its veneer ringed and chipped, was moored on the dingy braided rug that stretched between the couch and the seventeen-inch, portable Zenith. On the walls, two yellowing landscapes, cut from a magazine, had curled out of their frames, showing cinderblock underneath. Atop a chest of drawers against the wall, Jean Trent’s pale eyes stared across the room from a recent black-and-white photograph. The place smelled of menthol cigarettes, mildew, and hairspray.
Training his sights on the drawers, Frank Olney pulled a pair of leather gloves onto his bearish hands and invited me to help him turn the place upside down. I made a quick survey of the room while Frank rummaged. There was a heap of Pall Mall and Salem butts crammed together in the standing ashtray next to the lumpy couch, and five empty Rheingold bottles stood like duckpins on the floor. I pulled a couple of magazines from between the cushions of the couch, flipped through them absently, then tossed them back to where I’d found them. I lifted a corner of the rug, was frightened by what I saw, and dropped it. A close inspection of Jean’s photograph convinced me it had been developed by an amateur—no quality judgment intended. I slid the back off the frame to look for a dedication or note, but the only words I found were “Kodak Paper.”
“I’m going to have a look in the bedroom and bath,” I told Frank, who interrupted his burrowing long enough to remind me to keep my gloves on.
Jean Trent’s double bed, quilted satin cover and all, nearly filled her boudoir wall to wall. There was barely room for a wastebasket and a nightstand. I discovered her clothes in a small closet, hidden behind a crooked folding door. On the shelf inside, there was a shoebox filled with yellowing letters, creased snapshots, and memorabilia of what looked like a mostly forgettable life. Under the bed, dust colonies had long since prevailed over broom and mop, staking their claim to that netherworld. And there was a small strongbox amid the dirt. The lock was broken. Inside was a gun: a small, black Clerke revolver, unloaded but with a box of .22-caliber bullets. There was also an envelope with the gun’s registration papers, made out in the name of Jean Marie Trent. Everything looked in order, and Frank confirmed it when I showed him. He vaguely remembered having approved the permit a few years earlier.
“What should I do with it?” I asked.
“Leave it where you found it,” he said. “Jordan Shaw wasn’t killed with a gun.”
The bathroom was easily the cleanest room in the place. I smelled the ammonia and soap, used liberally during a very recent cleaning frenzy. The sink was ordered and scrubbed to a shine. The dull linoleum countertop was spotless, though bleached and discolored in places. My heels scratched over the remnants of a gritty cleanser left on the tiled floor. The grimy porcelain of the toilet and the mildewed tub, however, revealed the same neglect Jean Trent displayed in the rest of her housekeeping. Why clean only half of the bathroom? The room smelled clean, all right, but the caustic detergents could scarcely cover the familiar odor of hypo underneath. I had lived with that smell for years.
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