beneath the black coat at the wrist. It was far deadlier than a hook, each of the three talons having a jagged edge, like those of a fish scaler.
Ovid was the only one alive who had seen the Claw's weapon… and he had seen it in action.
It was so fast his eyes could not possibly follow.
Swwwwissssh, swwwwissssh, swwwwissssh. He heard the horrible sound of it as if it were in the room now with him. It made him get up, stumble around in the dark and cry and shout, but he found himself alone, after all, alone except for the odor of what was in his kitchen cabinets.
It was the first night in so long that the Claw had failed to materialize.
What did it mean? he wondered.
He couldn't hazard a guess, but an overwhelming fear gripped his heart, a double-edged fear. He was afraid that the Claw would come again, but he was equally afraid that the Claw would never come again…
At almost nine the next day Leon was awakened by an insistent knock at the outer door. He owned the building. It was paid off finally with his mother's inheritance, and he had evicted the tenants from upstairs so that now only he and the Claw kept house here. Who could be at the door?
He never had visitors.
He was still in the same clothes as when he had left work the day before. He hadn't brushed his hair or his teeth in all this time. He stared out between the curtains at two people, a man and a woman, both dressed relatively well for the neighborhood. The woman banged on the door again, staring, trying to make out the movement inside from behind the faded curtains, when she decided to hold up a badge. She shouted, “Police, please open up!”
Her partner muttered something about forgetting about it, but she swore she saw some movement from inside, and so she banged again.
Leon wondered if it was a test; if the Claw was testing his loyalty.
Suddenly the glass shattered where the female cop hit it with the butt of her gun. She was shouting an apology to the occupant or occupants inside.
Leon, shocked into action by the shattered glass, fearful of their coming in, rushed to the door, shouting, “What the hell're you doing, breaking my glass? You're going to pay for that.”
“ Mr. Helfer?” she asked.
He was shaken that she should know his name. We stopped by last night and yesterday to speak with you, but you're always out, it seems.”
“ Speak with me? About what?”
“ You must be aware that a neighbor of yours was killed a few doors down,” she replied. “Look, I'm Sergeant Detective Louise Emmons, and this is my partner, Sergeant Turner. We've been assigned to question everybody in the building about-”
“ I'm the only one in the building.”
“ So we've been told.”
“ Don't like boarders… don't trust them… can't.”
Turner, who had come closer, eyeballing Helfer, said, “I know what you mean. I rent a space over my garage… real nightmare.”
Both Emmons and Turner were staring at the way Helfer was dressed. He looked as if he had been ejected from a boxcar with the train going forty. His bloodshot eyes were wide and wild. An odor exuded from his body that spoke of more than mere perspiration and bad breath. Emmons tried to place the odor but it was elusive.
“ Can we come in and ask you a few questions about Mrs. Phillips down the street?”
“ No, no! I mean, I've got to get to work, and… and the place is a mess, and besides… I don't know anything.”
Emmons took in a great breath, her breasts rising in exasperation, but she was also trying desperately to place the odor that seemed to be wafting out to her from the building. “Smells like you've been using cleaning fluids,” she said. “Place can't be any worse than mine.”
He blocked her way. “No, I'm sorry, but I got no time. I'll be fired if I'm late. I got a nasty boss, real nasty.”
“ Mr. Helfer,” said Turner, sounding stern, “am I to understand that you're refusing us entrance to your domicile?”
Leon stared at him, weighing his options, it appeared. “You… you got a warrant? If not, you ask your questions right here and now, and let me get on with my life. I'm sorry about Mrs. Phillips, but I don't know anything and there's nothing I can tell you that will change the fact she's dead.”
She and Leon stared back at one another. Leon finally said, “Go ahead. Ask your questions. I don't have all day.” Emmons asked the questions while Turner reached for a cigarette and asked Leon if he wanted one.
“ How well did you know Mrs. Phillips?”
“ Cigarette?” repeated Turner, holding the packet up to him.
“ No, no thanks… Not well. Just seen her around.”
“ Like at the park?”
“ Sure.”
“ And the supermarket?”
“ Yeah, places like that.”
Emmons noted something in her little book that made Leon nervous. Turner was puffing heatedly on his Marlboro.
Emmons looked Leon directly in the eye for a second time and said, “Your neighbors said you once or twice visited her in her home.”
“ What?” he asked. “Me? That's… that's a lie.”
“ Said when your mother died, she had you over for dinner once.”
“ No, no… not me. I mean, yeah, my mother died… left me… but no, I never had a meal at Mrs. Phillips' place. Talked with her in the park. We… she'd feed the pigeons, and I'd feed the pigeons and-”
Turner piped in. “What'd you talk about?”
“ Weather, the Mets, stuff like that… nothing big.”
“ You know anyone that would want to hurt Mrs. Phillips, Mr. Helfer?”
“ No, no one.”
Emmons asked him his whereabouts the night of her death.
“ I was out… to a movie… with a cousin. Spent the night.”
She asked him where he worked.
He hesitated. “What's where I work got to do with it?”
“ Please, Mr. Helfer,” she said, “it's just for the record.” She pointed to her notebook.
“ Oleander Pipes.”
“ Pipes?” asked Turner. “Smokin' pipes? You think maybe I could get a sample of one of them?”
“ No, it's not smoking pipes, it's industrial pipe.”
“ All right,” said Emmons. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Helfer.”
“ Yeah, thanks, Leon,” added Turner.
Helfer closed the door quickly on them. Emmons recognized the signs of a man who had something to hide, and she continued to wonder about the odor she sniffed at the door. As they walked away from the premises, they could feel Leon's eyes on them.
“ Let's make him sweat,” said Turner.
“ You're on.”
They stood outside for some time, staring up at the building, talking in guarded remarks, using frequent hand gestures, Emmons jotting down items in her notebook. Leon couldn't hear them.
“ Whataya call that kind of brick? Stucco?”
“ Stucco Royale, I think,” she replied. “Think that's bad; look at the weedy yard and that shack out back.”
“ What a junk pile.”
“ Breeding ground for a killer?”
“ This guy can't be the Claw. He's a wuss. I figure the Claw's got to be something more than Leon.”
