LITMIR.BIZ

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I shuddered. Certainly I’ve seen poverty, and drab little girls trying to be beautiful. But there was something about this place that was worse than poor, worse than dirty. It had an almost melodramatic air of evil, like a scene in a movie. A dingy, damp, friendless place.

      Dr. Wurber, panting, turned at the third-floor landing. I followed him through the narrow hall, lighted by a single feeble bulb. He stopped before a door. So did I.

      “Well, let us in,” he said impatiently. I put out my hand before I realized what he meant.

      “I . . . I don’t have a key.” Still holding the knob, I knocked with my free hand. There was no answer. I knocked again. Dr. Wurber was fuming.

      “Coming out . . . leaving this man . . . anybody could have walked in.”

      I turned the knob. The door was unlocked. Cool air blew across my face as I pushed the door open. I realized a window was raised. I reached for the wall switch as a train roared by, shaking the building like an earthquake. In the passing glare, I glimpsed the line of the light cord in the middle of the room. I moved quickly and pulled on the light.

      With my hand still on the greasy, fly-specked cord, I surveyed the dingy kitchen-sitting room. Empty beer bottles and crusts from sandwiches littered the deal table. A fact-detective magazine lay on a chair near the window.

      Behind me Wurber was saying, “Where is he? What have . . .”

      There was a door ajar, leading into another room. I said, “In there. That’s where he was.”

      There are some things you know. Some things you know without ever realizing how the meaning came to you. But this was not one of those occasions. I had no premonition as Wurber pushed open the door. I was on his heels as he stopped, gasped, muttered oaths as he found the pull cord for the light. Then he stepped aside.

      Lying on that rumpled, unmade bed, still in trousers and shirt, was Eddie Wells. No mistaking the face, the upturned nose, the winged brows, the petulant mouth. Nor was there any mistaking the hideous hole in his forehead, the dark smear of blood across the upper half of his face, the crimson splotches on his shirt.

      Dr. Wurber was staring at me. Accusation—ghastly clear—burned in those pale eyes.

      I’d said Eddie was shot. That was what I told Wurber—to bring him here. And I’d been right. That was the fantastic fact I had to face now.

      Eddie had been shot. He was dead.

      3.

      I HAD seen death neatly dressed in a coffin, but never like this, raw and rude, with staring eyes. Eddie Wells had met death literally face to face. Obviously he had been backed into the dirty cluttered bedroom at gunpoint and shot. There had been no struggle. His hair was neatly combed. The crease still marked his trousers.

      Dr. Wurber, his breath an audible rattle, bent with dainty gestures over the bed. “Dead for hours,” he murmured, as he straightened up, his eyes glassy as marbles, sweat visible on the slick skin. He teetered toward me on those little feet.

      “Eddie’s injured!” His natural falsetto climbed an octave in satirical mimicry. “He’s been shot. That’s what you said.”

      “But . . .” I stammered in panic. “I didn’t realize—how badly . . .”

      “Stop lying,” he squealed. “You said he was wounded. He was dead then. He died instantly.”

      “I didn’t kill him,” I said, grabbing at truth. The very honest denial gave me courage. “You have to understand that, now, this instant. This is only between you and me. Cards-on-the-table stuff. I didn’t kill him.”

      Wurber looked at the body again, a cold, professional look. Then slowly he turned and faced me. “Who are you?”

      “You know who I am.”

      “No. You’re not Eddie’s girl. You had some reason for getting me here, for dragging me into this. You had a reason.”

      He picked up his case, bustled into the wretched living room.

      “What are you going to do now?” I asked, trying to hold that new steadiness.

      “I’m getting out. Understand? He’s your business if you are Cora, and you can take care of it. I never saw you in my life.”

      I turned out the lights automatically, like a housekeeper finished with the cleaning. As I put out the living-room light, another El train rushed by, rattling dishes and pans on the stove. A man could be machine-gunned with that racket going on and nobody would ever hear.

      Wurber said, “You open the door. You’re wearing gloves.”

      I obeyed him. Instantly he pushed past me, rushing through the narrow hall and down the stairs. I hurried after him, grabbed his arm.

      “Don’t run,” I cautioned, as a door opened on the first floor. With a sigh like a pneumatic brake the little doctor slowed down, took each step with exaggerated deliberation. A large woman in a soiled house dress and a shoulder-length bob of matted gray hair came to the foot of the stairs. Looking up at us, with large dark eyes, she was rather handsome, or would have been if she were well groomed, or even scrubbed.

      “You the doctor?” she asked Wurber, with a foreign accent. He nodded. “That poor Mr. Wells . . .” Wurber’s fat shoulders quivered. She went on sympathetically, “Such a nice guy. Real cute, huh? How is he?”

      “He’s resting,” Wurber squeaked. “There’s nothing more I can do for him.”

      “Ahhh! I go in after while. Maybe the blonde lady is up there? She come back?”

      “The blonde lady?” I broke in.

      “She go for the doctor.” It was half statement, half question.

      “Oh, yes, that one. She isn’t here right now.”

      “Such a beautiful lady.” The big woman smiled, revealing two missing teeth. “Such beautiful ladies he knows.”

      I kept moving slowly, smiling, too, as I passed the landlady. Wurber, ahead of me, had bolted out to the street. I followed leisurely, aware that she was still watching us.

      The rain had stopped but the streets were wet and glistening. We hadn’t been in there more than ten minutes.

      “I’ll go uptown,” Wurber said. “You go some other way.”

      He took off with a flying leap. I stood, watched him flag down a cab at the next corner. I was definitely rocky. I had to take it easy, get everything under control before I saw people or they saw me. I dug out a cigarette, took a deep drag. I glanced at my watch. Ten-ten. Deliberately I turned and walked south toward the lights at 86th Street.

      A police radio car came along the curb, parked. I wanted to run but I didn’t. I moved mechanically, my eyes fixed on those lights, some five blocks away. The cop in the car was making out a report. The police didn’t know about Eddie, yet.

      With each measured step, I knew I should turn back, show the police my credentials, tell them there was a dead man in the third-floor front flat, two doors down. But I wasn’t ready. I wanted to think, to figure the angles. For instance, the blonde who went for the doctor. Dawn Ferris was a blonde. . . .

      I crossed the next street. It was a dark block. A train roared overhead. In the silence that followed, I heard footsteps, heavy and slightly uneven. I slackened my pace. So did the footsteps. I didn’t like it. Neither did my nerves. Chills crawled on the back of my neck, while dark thoughts slid through my mind.

      Punks gathered strange companions in a lifetime of petit larceny. Somebody thought it necessary to kill Eddie Wells. That somebody might have been watching when Wurber and I entered the building, and when we came out. My ears strained with listening. There was no sound but those footsteps measured to mine.

      In the middle of the block there was a dimly lit delicatessen store. I stopped before the window, stared at a toothy

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