pavement and the automobiles and the buildings in an eerie purple-white
light. The street was lined with three- and four-story townhouses, some
of them brownstones and some brick, most of them in good repair. There
didn't seem to be anyone at any of the lighted windows. That was good;
he did not want to be seen. A few trees struggled for life at the edges
of the sidewalks, the scrawny plane trees and maples and birches that
were all that New York City could boast beyond the boundaries of its
public parks, all of them stunted trees, skeletal, their branches like
charred bones reaching for the midnight sky. A gentle but chilly
January wind pushed scraps of paper along the gutters; and when the wind
gusted, the branches of the trees rattled like children's sticks on a
rail fence. The other parked cars looked like animals huddling against
the cold air; they were empty.
Both sidewalks were deserted for the length of the block.
He got out of the car, quickly crossed the street and went up the front
steps of the apartment house.
The foyer was clean and brightly lighted. The complex mosaic floor-a
garland of faded roses on a beige background-was highly polished, and
there were no pieces of tile missing from it. The inner foyer door was
locked and could only be opened by key or with a lock release button in
one of the apartments.
There were three apartments on the top floor, three on the second floor
and two on the ground level. Apartment 1A belonged to Mr. and Mrs.
Harold Nagly, the owners of the building, who were on their annual
pilgrimage to Miami Beach. The small apartment at the rear of the first
floor was occupied by Edna Mowry, and he supposed that right now Edna
would be having a midnight snack or a well-deserved martini to help her
relax after a long night's work.
He had come to see Edna. He knew she would be home. He had followed
her for six nights now, and he knew that she lived by strict routine,
much too strict for such a young and attractive woman. She always
arrived home from work at twelve, seldom more than five minutes later.
Pretty little Edna, he thought. You've got such long and lovely legs.
He smiled.
He pressed the call button for Mr. and Mrs. Yardley on the third
floor.
A man's voice echoed tinnily from the speaker at the top of the mailbox.
'Who is it?'
'Is this the Hutchinson apartment?' Bollinger asked, knowing full well
that it was not.
'You pressed the wrong button, mister. The Hutchinsons are on the
second floor. Their mailbox is next to ours.'
'Sorry,' Bollinger said as Yardley broke the connection.
He rang the Hutchinson apartment.
The Hutchinsons, apparently expecting visitors and less cautious than
the Yardleys, buzzed him through the inner door without asking who he
was.
The downstairs hall was pleasantly warm. The brown tile floor and tan
walls were spotless. Halfway along the corridor, a marble bench stood
on the left, and a large beveled mirror hung above it. Both apartment
