sneak him off with second-degree, but we’ve got him now.”
Johnny lapsed into silence. Whoever the whispering voice on the telephone had been, he could have saved himself the trouble. And he had wasted the dough shelled out for Johnny’s beating—it had not been necessary.
Because you didn’t get too far with a play when the leading man stood trial for the murder of the leading lady. You took yourself a deep breath, and you put the script into an envelope, and you filed away the whole business for future reference. And you tried not to think too much about it in order to keep from crying and kicking your feet like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum.
Such a nice script, too…
“Sort of puts a damper on your play,” Haig said.
Johnny sighed. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“You can’t win ’em all, you know. At least you can tell yourself you’ve been instrumental in solving a murder. That ought to give you some satisfaction.”
“I guess so.” The green Plymouth stopped short for a stoplight and the driver cursed gently. Crosstown traffic was thick. The afternoon rush hour was getting underway and the cars crawled through the streets like fat water beetles swimming valiantly through molasses. After a long time they pulled up in front of a chrome-and-steel monstrosity that looked out of place on Barrow, one of the quieter streets in the western part of Greenwich Village.
Johnny said, “Tracy lives here?”
Haig nodded. “He’s got the penthouse. Not as fancy as yours, I suppose, but what the hell. It’s the penthouse.”
“Sure. And it’s just about Tracy’s speed. The prestige of a Village address coupled with all the ugliness of a housing project.”
“It looks like a steamboat,” Haig conceded. “But it’s where he has a penthouse. Ordinary slobs like me, slobs that don’t have penthouses of our own, we’re easy to impress.”
The building had a slightly broken-down doorman who looked homesick for Park Avenue. Haig flashed his shield and they went on past him. The elevator was self-service, but to get to the penthouse you needed a key. Haggerty got the key from the doorman, turned it in the little button marked PH, and the car went skyward.
“Impressive,” Haig remarked, “You can’t even ride up there without a key. You got a gadget like that at your dump, Johnny? Or aren’t you that fancy?”
“You’ve been there. There’s an operator running the car so you don’t need a key.”
Haig winced. “Suppose you’re a visitor at this place. How do you get up?”
“You tell the doorman,” Johnny explained patiently. “And he calls upstairs and checks you out, and then he uses his key in the elevator. The one you’re holding in your hand.”
Haig looked thoughtfully at the key, then shrugged and put it into his pocket. The car eased to a stop and the door opened. They stepped out of the elevator and into the foyer of Carter Tracy’s apartment. It was an impressive layout, Johnny had to admit. The furniture was too extreme for his tastes, too modern in design, maybe a little too flashy. But then it had to reflect the tenant’s personality, and in that it succeeded admirably. It was just the sort of place Tracy would pick to live in—an over-thick carpet laid wall-to-wall, glaringly daring arrangements of lamps and sectional couches and tables, all too low to serve other than a decorative function for a human being of normal size. Blinding abstract paintings set the walls on fire. It was fine for Tracy, but Johnny could not see how anybody else could stand living in it.
“Tracy!” Haig’s voice echoed through the apartment. “Police officers, Tracy. We want to talk to you.”
Silence.
“Maybe,” Johnny suggested, “he’s not home.”
Haig turned to Haggerty. “Go down and talk to the doorman,” he said. “Find out if Tracy left the apartment this afternoon. Ask him—”
“Sit down and relax, Haggerty.” Johnny grinned. “It would be easier to
Johnny lapsed into silence. Whoever the whispering voice on the telephone had been, he could have saved himself the trouble. And he had wasted the dough shelled out for Johnny’s beating—it had not been necessary.
Because you didn’t get too far with a play when the leading man stood trial for the murder of the leading lady. You took yourself a deep breath, and you put the script into an envelope, and you filed away the whole business for future reference. And you tried not to think too much about it in order to keep from crying and kicking your feet like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum.
Such a nice script, too…
“Sort of puts a damper on your play,” Haig said.
Johnny sighed. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“You can’t win ’em all, you know. At least you can tell yourself you’ve been instrumental in solving a murder. That ought to give you some satisfaction.”
“I guess so.” The green Plymouth stopped short for a stoplight and the driver cursed gently. Crosstown traffic was thick. The afternoon rush hour was getting underway and the cars crawled through the streets like fat water beetles swimming valiantly through molasses. After a long time they pulled up in front of a chrome-and-steel monstrosity that looked out of place on Barrow, one of the quieter streets in the western part of Greenwich Village.
Johnny said, “Tracy lives here?”
Haig nodded. “He’s got the penthouse. Not as fancy as yours, I suppose, but what the hell. It’s the penthouse.”
“Sure. And it’s just about Tracy’s speed. The prestige of a Village address coupled with all the ugliness of a housing project.”
“It looks like a steamboat,” Haig conceded. “But it’s where he has a penthouse. Ordinary slobs like me, slobs that don’t have penthouses of our own, we’re easy to impress.”
The building had a slightly broken-down doorman who looked homesick for Park Avenue. Haig flashed his shield and they went on past him. The elevator was self-service, but to get to the penthouse you needed a key. Haggerty got the key from the doorman, turned it in the little button marked PH, and the car went skyward.
“Impressive,” Haig remarked, “You can’t even ride up there without a key. You got a gadget like that at your dump, Johnny? Or aren’t you that fancy?”
“You’ve been there. There’s an operator running the car so you don’t need a key.”
Haig winced. “Suppose you’re a visitor at this place. How do you get up?”
“You tell the doorman,” Johnny explained patiently. “And he calls upstairs and checks you out, and then he uses his key in the elevator. The one you’re holding in your hand.”
Haig looked thoughtfully at the key, then shrugged and put it into his pocket. The car eased to a stop and the door opened. They stepped out of the elevator and into the foyer of Carter Tracy’s apartment. It was an impressive layout, Johnny had to admit. The furniture was too extreme for his tastes, too modern in design, maybe a little too flashy. But then it had to reflect the tenant’s personality, and in that it succeeded admirably. It was just the sort of place Tracy would pick to live in—an over-thick carpet laid wall-to-wall, glaringly daring arrangements of lamps and sectional couches and tables, all too low to serve other than a decorative function for a human being of normal size. Blinding abstract paintings set the walls on fire. It was fine for Tracy, but Johnny could not see how anybody else could stand living in it.
“Tracy!” Haig’s voice echoed through the apartment. “Police officers, Tracy. We want to talk to you.”
Silence.
“Maybe,” Johnny suggested, “he’s not home.”
Haig turned to Haggerty. “Go down and talk to the doorman,” he said. “Find out if Tracy left the apartment this afternoon. Ask him—”
“Sit down and relax, Haggerty.” Johnny grinned. “It would be easier to
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