Driving just below the speed limit, Conrad cut through the back streets to avoid the theatre traffic. He wondered uneasily if Janey had made good her threat and had gone out, and if she had, whether she was back yet. He didn’t want to think about her just now, but inevitably, whenever he headed for home, she forced herself into his thoughts.
He slowed down to light a cigarette. As he flicked the match through the open window his eye caught the name-plate of the street: Glendale Avenue.
It was not until he had nearly reached the end of the street that he remembered the girl, Frances Coleman, who had called on June Arnot at seven o’clock this night, had given her address as 145 Glendale Avenue. His foot trod down hard on the brake and he swung the car to the kerb.
For a moment he sat still, staring through the windshield at the dark empty street. Doc Holmes had said June Arnot had died around seven o’clock. Was it possible this girl had seen something?
He got out of the car and peered at the nearest house. It was numbered 123. He walked for a few yards until he came to 145.
It was a tall, shabby, brown-stone house. Some of the windows showed lights; some didn’t.
He climbed the flight of steep stone steps and looked through the glass panel of the front door. Beyond was a dimly lit hall with stairs going away into the darkness.
He turned the door knob and pushed. The door opened and a violent smell of frying onions, virile tomcats and ripe garbage jostled past him as if anxious to reach some fresh air.
He tipped his hat to the back of his head, wrinkled his nose and moved farther into the hall. A row of mailboxes screwed against the wall told him what kind of house it was. The third mail-box belonged to Miss Coleman: that put her on the third floor.
Conrad climbed the stairs, passing shabby doors from which came the blare of radios playing swing music as if the listeners were stone deaf but determined to hear something.
The door facing the head of the stairs on the third floor told him this was where Miss Coleman lived. A neat white card bearing her name was pinned to the panel with a thumb tack.
As he closed his hand into a fist to knock, he saw the door was ajar. He knocked, waited a long moment, and then stepped back, his eyes suddenly wary.
Was this going to be another body behind a half-open door? he wondered.
Already he had looked at six bodies this night, each of them in its own particular way, horrible and pathetic. He felt his nerves crawl under his skin and the hair on the nape of his neck move.
He took out a cigarette and pasted it on his lower lip. As he set fire to it he noticed his hands were steady enough, and he suddenly grinned.
He leaned forward and pushed the door open and peered into darkness.
“Anyone in?” he said, raising his voice.
No one answered. A solid silence came out of the room on a faint perfume of Californian Poppy.
He took two steps forward and groped for the light switch. As the light went on, he drew a deep breath of expectancy, but there were no bodies, no blood, no murder weapons: just a small, box-like room with an iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a chair and a pinewood cupboard.- It looked as comfortable and as homely as a Holy man’s bed of nails.
He stood looking round for a moment or so, then he moved forward and opened one of the cupboard’s doors. Except for a far-away smell of lavender the cupboard was empty. He frowned, reached for one of the drawers in the chest and pulled it open. That, too, was empty.
He scratched the back of his neck with a forefinger, stared around some more, then lifted his shoulders and walked out into the passage.
He turned off the light and then walked down the stairs, slowly and thoughtfully. Back again in the hall, he inspected Miss Coleman’s mail-box. It was unlocked and empty.
A notice on the wall caught his attention. It read: Janitor. Basement.
“What have I got to lose?” he thought, and went along a passage and down a flight of dirty stairs into darkness.
At the foot of the stairs he collided with something hard and he swore under his breath.
“Anyone at home?” he called.
A door swung open and the light of a naked electric lamp flowed out, making him blink.
“No vacancies, pally,” a mild oily voice oozed from the doorway. “This joint’s fuller than a dog with fleas.”
Conrad looked into a small room that contained a bed, a table, two chairs and a worn rug. At the table sat a large fat man in shirt sleeves. In his mouth he held a dead cigar. Spread out before him on the table was a complicated patience game.
“You’ve got a vacancy on the third floor, haven’t you?” Conrad said. “Miss Coleman’s moved out.”
“Who says so?”
“I’ve just been up there. The room’s empty. Clothes gone. All the little knickknacks that make up a home gone too.”
“Who are you?” the fat man asked.
Conrad flashed his buzzer.
“City police.”
The fat man curled his upper lip into a complacent sneer.
“What’s she been up to?”
“When did she leave?” Conrad asked, leaning against the door post.
“I didn’t know she had left,” the fat man said. “She was here this morning. Well, that’s a relief off my mind. I would have had to put her out tomorrow: saves me a job.”
“Why?”
The fat man wheezed as he pushed a fat finger into his ear and massaged it briskly.
“The usual reason. She was three weeks behind on her rent.”
Conrad rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.
“What do you know about her? When did she come here?”
“A month ago. Said she was a movie extra.” The fat man swept the spread-out cards into a little heap, picked them up and began to shuffle them. “Couldn’t get anything cheap in Hollywood: anyway, cheap enough for her. She was a nice girl. If I had a daughter I’d like her to be like her. Nice way of talking, nice looks, quiet, well-behaved.” He lifted his fat shoulders. “But no money. It’s the bad ones who have the dough, I guess. I told her to go home, but she wouldn’t listen. She promised to have the money for me by tomorrow morning for certain. Looks like she didn’t get it, doesn’t it?”
“That’s the way it looks,” Conrad said. He suddenly felt tired. Why should an out-of-work movie extra call on June Arnot, he wondered, except for a touch? She probably never got farther than the guard-house. It was unlikely June Arnot would have seen her.
He glanced at his watch. It was just after midnight.
“Well, thanks.” He pushed himself away from the door post. “That’s all I want to know.”
The fat man asked, “She isn’t in trouble, is she?”
Conrad shook his head.
“Not as far as I know.”
The night air felt cold and fresh after the fusty smells of the apartment house. Conrad drove home. Bardin had said he was convinced that Jordan had done the job. Why should he bother? He would talk to the D.A. tomorrow. If only he knew for certain that Maurer and June had been lovers. If they had been then there might be a chance that Maurer had engineered the job; might even have done it himself.
“Oh, the hell with Maurer!” Conrad thought as he walked up the path to his front door. “I’ve got him on my mind like a junkie’s got dope.”
He sank his key into the lock and moved into the dark little hall.
The house was very still and silent.
He went along the passage to the bedroom, pushed open the door and turned on the light. The twin beds had an empty and forlorn look about them.
So Janey had gone out and she wasn’t back yet.
He began to strip off his clothes. As he walked into the bathroom for a quick shower, he said aloud, “And the hell with her too!”