Three-Day Town

with a droopy white mustache opened the cage door.

“You’ll freeze out there without a warmer coat,” I said.

“No. I’ll hop in a cab and I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think so,” said the night man, whose name, according to his brass tag, was Jani. “The snow’s over a foot deep and still coming down. The crosstown streets are pretty well blocked and not much is moving on Broadway. The ambulance barely made it to the door, and that was a good forty minutes ago.” “Ambulance?” asked Dwight.

“Phil Lundigren’s wife flipped out when she heard about Phil and they had to call an ambulance for her.” Elliott turned back to us. “I don’t suppose you have an extra coat I could borrow? Or a heavy sweater so I can foot it down to the subway?” All four of us looked down at his shoes. Leather hiking shoes, not boots, and barely ankle high.

Dwight gave me an inquiring glance and I nodded.

“Looks like you’d better stay here tonight,” he said.

“Here?” Elliott looked around the hallway in puzzlement.

“With us,” I told him. “You can’t go out in this weather dressed like that. Not when we have an extra bedroom.” “Oh, but I couldn’t,” he protested.

“It’s pretty rough out there, sir,” said the night man.

“Then I’ll try the hotel down the block.”

“Full, sir. You’re not the only one stranded. I heard one of Luna’s party guests say they got the last room.” Elliott turned back to us and stretched his hands out in surrender. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?” “Of course we don’t mind,” I told him.

While Dwight put away the food and Elliott helpfully stacked the dishwasher, I pulled extra towels from the linen closet in the hall and made sure there were clean sheets on the bed in the guestroom.

We were all too tired for further socializing, and when I handed Elliott a robe that Rob had left in the owner’s closet, I said, “Sleep as late as you can. I certainly plan to.” Yawning, Dwight said, “I went ahead and filled the coffeemaker. If you’re up first, all you have to do is switch it on.” “Thanks again,” Elliott said as we headed for our own room. “I’ve heard about Southern hospitality all my life, but I never expected to find it in the middle of Manhattan.”

CHAPTER

7

It is generally supposed that the police of a city have but one duty to perform, namely to arrest law-breakers; but the New York police have other things than that on their schedule.

—

The New New York

, 1909

SIGRID HARALD— SUNDAY MORNING

When Sigrid joined him in the kitchen of 42? Hawker Street on the edge of Greenwich Village, Roman Tramegra said, “Oh, good! I was about to tiptoe down the hall to see if you were awake yet. Have you seen the snowdrifts? A perfect winter morning for a hearty breakfast.”

Her housemate flourished his whisk at her and, in a deep voice that was a mixture of cinema English and educated Midwest, said, “What will it be, my dear? Hash browns, quiche, omelets, or waffles?”

Now in his early fifties, Roman fell somewhere between friend and surrogate uncle. He was an overly adventurous chef and his culinary experiments were often inedible, but breakfast was usually safe.

“An omelet would be good. Just cheese, though.”

“Only cheese? Not a few jalapeno peppers or chopped shallots and tomatoes?”

“Cheese,” Sigrid said firmly, and when Roman brought out a hunk of something with an odd color, she emended it to, “Cheddar cheese.”

Sighing, he returned his first choice to the refrigerator and exchanged it for the familiar orange wedge.

Sigrid poured herself a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose the paper came?”

“Actually, it did. At least there’s a plastic bag wedged in the snowbank inside the gate.” He broke two eggs into a bowl and gave them a brisk stir with the whisk. “I suppose you should get it before it’s completely buried.”

Sigrid smiled. Despite his bald dome and portly size, there were times that Roman reminded her of a large fluffy cat. He had a cat’s aversion to strenuous exercise and to the cold and wet. Snow might be beautiful, but that did not mean he wanted to walk across their small enclosed courtyard in it.

“If you go out for it, do you think you could manage to walk backwards?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s for my book. I want to see if a killer could make it look as if he only came in after a snowfall. Not that he went out.”

“It wouldn’t,” she said flatly. “Sorry. It’s not just the shoe tracks. Snow this deep will show which direction the legs were moving.”

Sigrid had first met Roman through one of her mother’s impulsive charitable acts. Due to an improbable set of circumstances, he had wound up camping in her tiny guestroom, and when her building went condo, he took it upon himself to find her a new apartment. Several frustrating fiascos later, he had brought her to this house built onto