blackout curtains weren’t drawn. He decided to try the building’s front entrance first. It was always possible that Colonel Gaines had not yet sent a team to search the apartment.
When he walked across the street, an old man in a royal-blue porter’s jacket was standing in the darkness in front of the vestibule, smoking a cigarette. Taggart flashed his identity card and said, “Military Security Command … I’m here to check Lady Dunbar’s apartment.”
The old man dropped his cigarette stub and crushed it with a scuffed boot. When Taggart offered him another one from his open pack of Luckies, his wrinkled face lit up in pleasure.
“The Metropolitan Police have come and gone already,” he said, tucking it behind his left ear. “They left a bloody lock on her flat that belongs in the Tower of London.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Taggart. “Well, good night, then.”
Taggart sauntered back down the sidewalk. When he turned again, the porter was disappearing inside the dark vestibule. He waited in the shadows to make sure the street was empty before slipping down the narrow, brick-lined alley that separated Joss Dunbar’s apartment house from its stately neighbor.
It was pitch-black in the narrow passageway. He could smell bread baking in one of the buildings. Removing his flashlight, he pointed it ahead of him on the cobblestone path until he turned the corner and came to the rear entrance.
Three overflowing garbage containers stood along the wall next to it. As he stepped toward the door, an orange cat leapt from inside of one of the receptacles, tipping it over with a noisy crash. Taggart switched off the flashlight and stood silently in the darkness, waiting to see if someone came to investigate. Except for a bus chugging by on the next street, he could hear no sound of movement.
Taggart turned the flashlight back on and focused it on the small glass panel in the rear entrance door. It was secured from the inside by a stout metal bar. Continuing along the rear wall, he came to an iron fire-escape ladder bolted to the façade in the far corner. The lowest rung was only four feet above the cobblestones. In New York, it would have been an invitation to plunder. Londoners were a more trusting people, he concluded, at least until the Americans had arrived.
He began to climb up into the darkness. At the second floor, a wood-sash window revealed itself in the darkness less than a foot away from the ladder. Looking up, he saw that there was an identically spaced window on each of the next two floors.
The smell of baking bread grew stronger as he passed an open window on the third floor. Reaching the underside of the slate roof, he switched on the flashlight just long enough to see that Joss Dunbar’s window was securely locked. He pulled out his pocketknife, inserted the blade between the two sashes, and tried to force open the fastener. It refused to budge.
He waited in the darkness for the sound of several vehicles passing by in the next street before using the butt of the knife to smash the small windowpane above the fastener. When he had unlocked it, he carefully removed the broken shards of glass and put them in his coat pocket. Then, raising the bottom sash, he went through the dark opening headfirst.
He found himself in the kitchen. As he knelt on the floor, Taggart could hear the regular tap-tap-tap of water as it dripped into the kitchen sink. An upright refrigerator hummed against the far wall. In the murky darkness, he could make out a door at the other end of the room.
After closing the kitchen blackout curtain, he switched on his flashlight again and went to the door, slowly turned the knob, and swung it open. The narrow beam revealed the edge of a thick Persian rug, then the arm of an elegant sofa and a matching side chair.
Taggart thought he smelled licorice. A moment later, the cone of someone else’s flashlight pinned him in its beam, and he heard a low, guttural laugh.
“I’ve been
When he walked across the street, an old man in a royal-blue porter’s jacket was standing in the darkness in front of the vestibule, smoking a cigarette. Taggart flashed his identity card and said, “Military Security Command … I’m here to check Lady Dunbar’s apartment.”
The old man dropped his cigarette stub and crushed it with a scuffed boot. When Taggart offered him another one from his open pack of Luckies, his wrinkled face lit up in pleasure.
“The Metropolitan Police have come and gone already,” he said, tucking it behind his left ear. “They left a bloody lock on her flat that belongs in the Tower of London.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Taggart. “Well, good night, then.”
Taggart sauntered back down the sidewalk. When he turned again, the porter was disappearing inside the dark vestibule. He waited in the shadows to make sure the street was empty before slipping down the narrow, brick-lined alley that separated Joss Dunbar’s apartment house from its stately neighbor.
It was pitch-black in the narrow passageway. He could smell bread baking in one of the buildings. Removing his flashlight, he pointed it ahead of him on the cobblestone path until he turned the corner and came to the rear entrance.
Three overflowing garbage containers stood along the wall next to it. As he stepped toward the door, an orange cat leapt from inside of one of the receptacles, tipping it over with a noisy crash. Taggart switched off the flashlight and stood silently in the darkness, waiting to see if someone came to investigate. Except for a bus chugging by on the next street, he could hear no sound of movement.
Taggart turned the flashlight back on and focused it on the small glass panel in the rear entrance door. It was secured from the inside by a stout metal bar. Continuing along the rear wall, he came to an iron fire-escape ladder bolted to the façade in the far corner. The lowest rung was only four feet above the cobblestones. In New York, it would have been an invitation to plunder. Londoners were a more trusting people, he concluded, at least until the Americans had arrived.
He began to climb up into the darkness. At the second floor, a wood-sash window revealed itself in the darkness less than a foot away from the ladder. Looking up, he saw that there was an identically spaced window on each of the next two floors.
The smell of baking bread grew stronger as he passed an open window on the third floor. Reaching the underside of the slate roof, he switched on the flashlight just long enough to see that Joss Dunbar’s window was securely locked. He pulled out his pocketknife, inserted the blade between the two sashes, and tried to force open the fastener. It refused to budge.
He waited in the darkness for the sound of several vehicles passing by in the next street before using the butt of the knife to smash the small windowpane above the fastener. When he had unlocked it, he carefully removed the broken shards of glass and put them in his coat pocket. Then, raising the bottom sash, he went through the dark opening headfirst.
He found himself in the kitchen. As he knelt on the floor, Taggart could hear the regular tap-tap-tap of water as it dripped into the kitchen sink. An upright refrigerator hummed against the far wall. In the murky darkness, he could make out a door at the other end of the room.
After closing the kitchen blackout curtain, he switched on his flashlight again and went to the door, slowly turned the knob, and swung it open. The narrow beam revealed the edge of a thick Persian rug, then the arm of an elegant sofa and a matching side chair.
Taggart thought he smelled licorice. A moment later, the cone of someone else’s flashlight pinned him in its beam, and he heard a low, guttural laugh.
“I’ve been
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