smart people," thought Mr. Lobel. "Slick." He spread his palms apart, gesticulating to himself. "You go away and leave a house standing. Suppose somebody wants to use it. Who's to stop them? And why not? You ain't using it, why not let somebody else use it?"
  But then he began to worry and he no longer was amused by the idea that there had been trespassers in 59. Trespassers stole fixtures. Trespassers broke glass. A trespasser could take out plumbing, sell lead, brass and scrap iron just as well as George Lobel could. He stamped back into the kitchen. He began to search in earnest. And he noticed something he had missed before.
  He saw a brown stain, etched deeply into the wooden floor at the kitchen threshold, a lintel's breadth away from the spot where he had picked up the flashlight, spectacles and gun. The stain ran, catty corner, across one end of the kitchen, drop after drop, to the cellar door.
  He opened the cellar door. The foul miasma of decay smote his nostrils.
  His flashlight's beam cut the pitch blackness of the stair-well, played down steps that were steep and narrow as a ladder. There it was again: the brown stain like paint, a trail, on rung after rung, down to the cellar floor. And on the fourth step from the top, there lay, jammed into a corner, a tiny woman's slipper, and on the rung before the lowest, a second slipper. Mr. Lobel balanced the slippers on his palm, marveled at their smallness, tucked them, one in each coat pocket, with the pistol and the flashlight and the silver spectacles.
  His flash beam danced over the maze of pipes and flues on the ceiling of the cellar, over the vaulted brick arches which held the building up. It dropped to the stone floor. It picked up the brown trail, followed it under the center arch to a huge, square, brick furnace.
  On the floor in front of the furnace lay a woman's handbag. A large leather bag, dark in color under a coating of dust. Mr. Lobel opened the bag. There was money in it. Clean bills, folded together, coins. He hung the bag over his arm. "Count it later," he told himself.
  He opened the furnace door. He drove his light beam in. In the bright circle he saw a mat of human hair, a tiny hand, an arc of teeth, a huddle of dark cloth.
  He slammed the furnace door. He leaped up the steps. He ran, pop-eyed, down the street to the corner Coffee Pot.
  "Call the cops. Call the ambulance," he shouted to the counterman. "Quick. There's a girl in the furnace of fifty-nine."
  He plopped the handbag on the counter. "Here. This was there. Must belong to her."
  "Has it got a name in it?"
  "How do I know? Get the cops. Quick."
  "Wait'll I see. Sure it has a name. Phyllis Knight. Hey, that's the lady lawyer. Hey, that's who it is. Operator, get me the police, quick. There's a guy here found Phyllis Knight."
  "Signal 30. (*In police code: A serious crime has been committed) Signal 30. Cars 29 and 45. Cars 13 and 102. Go immediately. Signal 30."
  Sirens wailed. The brakes of police cars screeched. Blue coats, plain clothesmen, leaped out, dashed through the basement door. An ambulance dingdonged. A white coated interne hurried across the pavement. Law and order swarmed.
  Tenement, store, garage, rooming house, playground, spewed a crowd into roadway and gutters - mothers with their babes in go-carts, shopkeepers in shirtsleeves and aprons.
  Within the hour, the news was uptown and down, and on the streets, and at the subway stations and railroad terminals, in the bold black and white of newspaper extras: "Phyllis Knight has been found. Dead. In a furnace."
  Mary Carner put the "extra" on Chris Whittaker's desk. Her face was ashen. "Chris, you'll have to let me off today."
  Chris Whittaker caught her wrist. "You can't go away. You've got a job to do, here, at this store."
  "Don't you understand? Phyllis has been
  But then he began to worry and he no longer was amused by the idea that there had been trespassers in 59. Trespassers stole fixtures. Trespassers broke glass. A trespasser could take out plumbing, sell lead, brass and scrap iron just as well as George Lobel could. He stamped back into the kitchen. He began to search in earnest. And he noticed something he had missed before.
  He saw a brown stain, etched deeply into the wooden floor at the kitchen threshold, a lintel's breadth away from the spot where he had picked up the flashlight, spectacles and gun. The stain ran, catty corner, across one end of the kitchen, drop after drop, to the cellar door.
  He opened the cellar door. The foul miasma of decay smote his nostrils.
  His flashlight's beam cut the pitch blackness of the stair-well, played down steps that were steep and narrow as a ladder. There it was again: the brown stain like paint, a trail, on rung after rung, down to the cellar floor. And on the fourth step from the top, there lay, jammed into a corner, a tiny woman's slipper, and on the rung before the lowest, a second slipper. Mr. Lobel balanced the slippers on his palm, marveled at their smallness, tucked them, one in each coat pocket, with the pistol and the flashlight and the silver spectacles.
  His flash beam danced over the maze of pipes and flues on the ceiling of the cellar, over the vaulted brick arches which held the building up. It dropped to the stone floor. It picked up the brown trail, followed it under the center arch to a huge, square, brick furnace.
  On the floor in front of the furnace lay a woman's handbag. A large leather bag, dark in color under a coating of dust. Mr. Lobel opened the bag. There was money in it. Clean bills, folded together, coins. He hung the bag over his arm. "Count it later," he told himself.
  He opened the furnace door. He drove his light beam in. In the bright circle he saw a mat of human hair, a tiny hand, an arc of teeth, a huddle of dark cloth.
  He slammed the furnace door. He leaped up the steps. He ran, pop-eyed, down the street to the corner Coffee Pot.
  "Call the cops. Call the ambulance," he shouted to the counterman. "Quick. There's a girl in the furnace of fifty-nine."
  He plopped the handbag on the counter. "Here. This was there. Must belong to her."
  "Has it got a name in it?"
  "How do I know? Get the cops. Quick."
  "Wait'll I see. Sure it has a name. Phyllis Knight. Hey, that's the lady lawyer. Hey, that's who it is. Operator, get me the police, quick. There's a guy here found Phyllis Knight."
  "Signal 30. (*In police code: A serious crime has been committed) Signal 30. Cars 29 and 45. Cars 13 and 102. Go immediately. Signal 30."
  Sirens wailed. The brakes of police cars screeched. Blue coats, plain clothesmen, leaped out, dashed through the basement door. An ambulance dingdonged. A white coated interne hurried across the pavement. Law and order swarmed.
  Tenement, store, garage, rooming house, playground, spewed a crowd into roadway and gutters - mothers with their babes in go-carts, shopkeepers in shirtsleeves and aprons.
  Within the hour, the news was uptown and down, and on the streets, and at the subway stations and railroad terminals, in the bold black and white of newspaper extras: "Phyllis Knight has been found. Dead. In a furnace."
  Mary Carner put the "extra" on Chris Whittaker's desk. Her face was ashen. "Chris, you'll have to let me off today."
  Chris Whittaker caught her wrist. "You can't go away. You've got a job to do, here, at this store."
  "Don't you understand? Phyllis has been
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