picks had come in handy. He used one of them to tease up the pins in
the cheap gate lock, used the other pick to hold the pins in place once
they'd been teased. In two minutes he was inside.
A small courtyard lay behind Graham Harris's house. A patch of grass.
Two trees. A brick patio. Of course, the two flower beds were barren
during the winter; however, the presence of a wrought-iron table and
four wrought-iron chairs made it seem that people had been playing cards
in the sun just that afternoon.
He crossed the courtyard and climbed three steps to the rear entrance.
The storm door was not locked.
As delicately, swiftly and silently as he could manage, he picked the
lock on the wooden door.
He was dismayed by the ease with which he had gained entry.
Wouldn't people ever learn to buy good locks?
Harris's kitchen was warm and dark. It smelled of spice cake, and of
bananas that had been put out to ripen and were now overripe.
He closed the door soundlessly.
For a few minutes he stood perfectly still, listening to the house and
waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Finally, when he could
identify every object in the kitchen, he went to the table, lifted a
chair away from it, put the chair down again without making even the
faintest noise.
He sat down and took his revolver from the shoulder holster under his
left arm. He held the gun in his lap.
The squad car waited at the curb until Graham opened the front door of
the house. Then it drove away, leaving tracks in the five-inch snowfall
that, in Greenwich Village, had not yet been pushed onto the sidewalks.
He switched on the foyer light. As Connie closed the door, he went into
the unlighted living room and located the nearest table lamp.
He turned it on-and froze, unable to find the strength or the will to
remove his fingers from the switch.
A man sat in one of the easy chairs. He had a gun.
Connie put one hand on Graham's arm. To the man in the chair, she said,
'What are you doing here?'
Anthony Prine, the host of Manhattan at Midnight, stood up. He waved
the gun at them. 'I've been waiting for you.'
'Why are you talking like that?' Connie asked.
'The Southern accent? I was born with it. Got rid Of it years ago.
But I can recall it when I want. It was losing the accent that got me
interested in mimicry. I started in show business as a comic who did
imitations of famous people. Now I imitate Billy lames Plover, the man
I used to be.'
'How did you get in here?' Graham demanded.
'I went around the side of the house and broke a window.
'Get out. I want you out of here.'
'You killed Dwight,' Prine said. 'I drove by the Bowerton Building
after the show. I saw all the cops. I know what you did.'
He was very pale. His face was lined with strain.
'Killed who?' Graham asked.
'Dwight. Franklin Dwight Bollinger.'
