'Just how upset is he?'
'Enough to justify medical attention . . . which he won't have.'
'I see. All right, doctor, I'll call you again. Let me have those three days.'
'Three days, Mr. Hammer You may have less. Those Federal men are viewing me somewhat suspiciously.' We said our good-bys and hung up. Then I went out and ate breakfast.
I got dressed and went straight to the office. Velda had left a note in her typewriter saying that she had taken the morning plane out and for me to be careful. I pulled the sheet out of the roller and tore it up. There was no mail to look at so I gave Pat a ring and caught him just as he was coming in from lunch.
He said, 'Hello, Mike. What's new?'
If I told him he would have cut my throat. 'Nothing much. I wanted to speak to somebody so I called. What're you doing?'
'Right now I have to go downtown. I have to see the medical examiner and he's out on a case. A suicide, I think. I'm going to meet him there and if you feel like coming along you're welcome.'
'Well, I don't feel like it, but I will. Be down in a few minutes. We'll use my car.'
'Okay, but shake it up.'
I dumped a pack of Luckies out of the carton in my desk and shoved it in my pocket, went downstairs and took off for Pat's. He was waiting for me on the curb, talking earnestly to a couple of uniformed cops. He waved, made a final point to the cops and crossed the street.
'Somebody steal your marbles, Mike? You don't look happy.'
'I'm not. I didn't get but eleven hours' sleep.'
'Gosh, you poor guy. That must hurt. If you can keep awake, drive down to the foot of Third Avenue. How're you making out with Lee?'
'I'll have a definite report for him in a couple of days.'
'Negative?'
I shrugged.
Pat looked at me querulously. 'That's a hell of a note. What else could it be?'
'Positive.'
Pat got mad. 'Do you think Oscar left something behind him, Mike? By damn; if he did I want to know about it!'
'Simmer down. I'm checking every angle I know of and when my report is made you'll be able to depend on its answer. If Oscar left one thing that could frame Lee, I'll be sure nobody sees it who shouldn't see it. That's the angle I'm worried about. A smear on Lee now will be fatal . . . and Pat, there's a lot of wrong guys out to smear him. If you only knew.'
'I will know soon, sonny boy. I've already had a few initial reports myself and it seems that your name has cropped up pretty frequently.'
'I get around,' I said.
'Yeah.' He relaxed into a silence he didn't break until I saw the morgue wagon and a prowl ahead of me. 'Here's the place. Stop behind the car.'
We hopped out and one of the cops saluted Pat and told him the medical examiner was still upstairs. Pat lugged his brief case along and met him on the stairs. I stood in the background while they rambled along about something and Pat handed him a manila folder. The M.E. tucked it under his arm and said he'd take care of it.
Pat waved his thumb toward the top of the stairs. 'What is it this time?'
'Another suicide. Lieutenant Barner is on the case. Some old duck took the gas pipe. They're always doing it in this neighborhood. Go up and take a look.'
'I see enough of that stuff. Let Barner handle it.'
He would have followed the M.E. down the stairs if I hadn't been curious enough to step up to the landing and peer in the door. Pat came up behind me and laughed. 'Curious?'
'Can't help it.'
'Sure. Then let's go in and see somebody who died by their own hand instead of yours.'
'That's not funny, pal. Can it.' Pat laughed again and walked in.
The guy was a middle-aged average man. He had a shock of white hair and a peculiar expression and color that come from breathing too much gas. He stunk of whisky and lay in a heap on the floor with his head partially propped up against the cushioned leg of a chair.
Barner was slipping into his coat. 'Damn good thing there wasn't a pilot light on that stove. Would have blown the block to bits.'
Pat knelt down and took a close look at the body. 'How long has he been dead?'
'Few hours, at least. There hasn't been anybody home in this building all morning. The landlady came in around noon and smelt the gas. The door was closed, but not locked, and she smashed a couple of windows out and called a doctor. There wasn't anything he could do so he called us.'
'Any note?'
'Nah. The guy was tanked up. He probably got disgusted with himself and turned on the gas. He used to be an actor. Name's Jenkins, Harvey Robinson Jenkins. The landlady said he was pretty good about thirty years ago, a regular matinee idol. He dropped into character parts, got wiped out when vaudeville went out and picked up a few bucks working in small road shows now and then.'
I looked around the room and took stock of his things. There was a good leather chair by the window and a new floor lamp, but the rest of the furnishings had lost their shape and luster with age. There were two rooms, a combination sitting-room-bedroom and a kitchenette. A stack of old theater posters were neatly stacked behind the bed and a new military kit decorated the top of the dresser. The kitchen was big enough to hold one person at a time. A faint odor of gas still hung up high and clung to the curtains. The refrigerator didn't work, but then it didn't have to because it was empty. A jar of jam was on the table next to an empty bottle of whisky. There were a dozen other empties under the table in a cardboard carton.
So this is death. This is the way people die if you don't help them. He was on the long road and glad of it. Too bad he had to leave his most prized possessions behind. The make-up kit was old and battered, but it was clean, unlike everything else, and the tubes and jars inside it were all neatly arranged and labeled. The mirror fastened to the back of the lid was polished clear by a careful hand. I could picture the little guy sitting there night after night playing all the great roles of history, seeing his hand transform him to the glories of his youth.
They were taking the body out in the basket when the landlady came in to see that that was all they took out. Barner said so-long and left us watching the procession down the stairs. The landlady was a chubby woman whose scraggly hair fell down past her ears. Her hands were calloused and red from work and she kept rubbing them together as though they were cold.
She turned to me, clucking through her teeth. 'There you see the evil of drink, young man. I lost me two husbands that way and now I lose a boarder.'
'Tough. Did he owe you any money?'
'No, not one red cent. Oh, he was an honorable one was Mr. Jenkins. Lived here over three years he did but always paid his rent somehow. Too bad he got that inheritance. It was too much for him who never had any real money. He spent it all on drink and now look at him.'
'Yeah.'
'Well, I warned him, you can't say I didn't try. He was always making those speeches like an actor does and he told me that drink was food for the soul. Food for the soul! He never went hungry then.'
Pat grunted, anxious to leave. 'Let that be a lesson to you, Mike.' He looked at the landlady pointedly. 'How long was he on that binge?'
'Oh, for quite a while. Let me see, the letter with the money came a week after the Legion Parade. That was a Wednesday, the 13th. Yes, that's it, a week later he got the money. He paid me the three months he owed me and for two more months in advance, then he started drinking. I never did see a man drink so much. Every night he'd get carried in still mumbling one of them silly parts of his and messing up my floor.'
Pat nodded thoughtfully. 'See, Mike, that's what you're heading for. An untimely end.'
'Nuts, I don't drink that much. Anyway, I'll shoot myself before I try to get charged up on gas. Come on, let's get out of here.'
The landlady showed us to the door and watched from the stoop as we pulled away. I hunched behind the
