“I am willing,” I said helpfully, “to give you a detailed analysis of the dog’s conduct. It will take about a week.”
“Go to hell,” Purley growled, “and take the goddam dog along.”
I departed. Outside the morning was still fine. The presence of two PD cars in front of the scene of a murder had attracted a small gathering, and Bootsy and I were objects of interest as we appeared and started off. We both ignored the stares. We moseyed along, in no hurry, stopping now and then to give Bootsy a chance to inspect something if he felt inclined. At the fourth or fifth stop, more than a block away, I saw the quartet leaving number 29. Stebbins and Talento took one car and Loftus and the colleague the other, and they rolled off.
I shortened up on Bootsy a little, walked him west until an empty taxi appeared, stopped it and got in, took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, and handed it to the hackie.
“Thanks,” he said with feeling. “For what, down payment on the cab?”
“You’ll earn it, brother,” I assured him. “Is there somewhere within a block or so of Arbor and Court where you can park for anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours?”
“Not three hours for a finif.”
“Of course not.” I got another five and gave it to him. “I doubt if it will be that long.”
“There’s a parking lot not too far. On the street without a passenger I’ll be solicited.”
“You’ll have a passenger-the dog. I prefer the street. He’s a nice dog. When I return I’ll be reasonable. Let’s see what we can find.”
He pulled the lever and we moved. There are darned few legal parking spaces in all Manhattan at that time of day, and we cruised around several corners before we found one, on Court Street two blocks from Arbor. He backed into it and I got out, leaving the windows down three inches. I told him I’d be back when he saw me, and headed south, turning right at the second corner.
There was no police car at 29 Arbor, and no gathering. That was satisfactory. Entering the vestibule, I pushed the button under Meegan and put my hand on the knob. No click. Pushing twice more and still getting no response, I tried Aland’s button, and that worked. After a short wait the click came, and I shoved the door open, entered, mounted two flights, went to the door, and knocked with authority.
The squeaky voice came through. “Who is it?”
“Goodwin. I was just here with the others. I haven’t got the dog. Open up.”
The door swung slowly to a crack, and then wider. Jerome Aland was still in his gaudy pajamas. “For God’s sake,” he squeaked, “what do you want now? I need some sleep!”
I didn’t apologize. “I was going to ask you some questions when I was here before,” I told him, “but the dog complicated it. It won’t take long.” Since he wasn’t polite enough to move aside, I had to brush him, skinny as he was, as I went in. “Which way?”
He slid past me, and I followed him across to chairs. They were the kind of chairs that made Jewel Jones hate furnished apartments, and the rest of the furniture didn’t help any. He sat on the edge of one and demanded, “All right, what?”
It was a little tricky. Since he was assuming I was one of the Homicide personnel, it wouldn’t do for me to know either too much or too little. It would be risky to mention Jewel Jones, because the cops might not have got around to her at all.
“I’m checking some points,” I told him. “How long has Richard Meegan occupied the apartment below you?”
“Hell, I’ve told you that a dozen times.”
“Not me. I said I’m checking. How long?”
“Nine days. He took it a week ago Tuesday.”
“Who was the previous tenant? Just before him.”
“There wasn’t any. It was empty.”
“Empty ever since you’ve been here?”
“No, I’ve told you, a girl had it, but she moved out about three months ago. Her name is Jewel Jones, and she’s a fine artist, and she got me my job at the night club where I work now.” His mouth worked. “I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to make it nasty, and you’re trying to catch me getting my facts twisted. Bringing that dog here to growl at me-can I help it if I don’t like dogs?”
He ran his fingers, both hands, through his hair. When the hair was messed good he gestured like a night-club performer. “Die like a dog,” he said. “That’s what Phil did, died like a dog. Poor Phil, I wouldn’t want to see that again.”
“You said,” I ventured, “that you and he were good friends.”
His head jerked up. “I did not. Did I say that?”
“More or less. Maybe not in those words. Why, weren’t you?”
“We were not. I haven’t got any good friends.”
“You just said that the girl that used to live here got you a job. That sounds like a good friend. Or did she owe you something?”
“Not a damn thing. Why do you keep bringing her up?”
“I didn’t bring her up, you did. I only asked who was the former tenant in the apartment below you. Why, would you rather keep her out of it?”
