'The same to you, schmuck!' he screamed, and banged 98
down the phone. Then he looked at me.
'Ah, may I be of service, sir?' he asked softly.
'Perhaps you can help me,' I said. 'I'm looking for Martin Reape, Room 910. But his office is completely empty.'
'Ah,' he said. 'Mr Reape is no longer with us.'
'Oh?' I said, 'Well, could you tell me where he moved?'
'Ah,' Mr Ng said, 'Mr Reape did not move. Mr Reape is dead.'
'Dead?' I cried. 'Good heavens! When did this happen?'
'Two days ago. Mr Reape fell under a subway train. You were, ah, a friend of his?'
'A client,' I said. 'This is terrible. He had some very important papers belonging to me. Do you know what happened to his files?'
'His, ah, widow,' Mr Ng said. 'She arrived yesterday and removed everything.'
'And you let her?' I exclaimed.
The manager turned his palms upwards and shrugged.
'A man's widow is entitled to his possessions.'
'But are you certain it was the widow?'
'Ah, Mr Reape owed two months' back rent,' Mr Ng said smoothly. 'The woman paid.'
'That doesn't prove she was actually his widow,' I said angrily.
The Oriental girl stopped typing, but didn't turn to look at me.
'It was her all right,' she said. 'I saw them together in the lobby once, and he introduced us.'
'You see?' Mr Ng said triumphantly. 'The widow.'
'Do you happen to have her phone number?'
'Ah, regrettably no.'
'The home address then?'
'Also, no.'
'Surely it was on his lease?' I said.
'No lease,' Mr Ng said. 'We rent by the month.'
'Well, I'll look it up in the phone book then,' I said.
Mr Ng paused for just a second. 'Ah, no,' he said sadly,
'Mr Reape had an unlisted number.'
I thanked Mr Ng and left. I walked through that dank tunnel and was almost at the stairway when I heard a shouted 'Hey, you!' I turned. The Oriental girl was running towards me.
'Ten bucks,' she said.
'What?' I said.
'Ten bucks,' she repeated. 'For the Reapes' address.'
She plucked the bill from my fingers and was already flying back down the tunnel.
'It's in the phone book,' she called.
I had little doubt but that Mr Ng would get his share of the money.
I had to walk two blocks before I could find a Manhattan telephone directory. I opened it with some trepidation, fearing that I had been twice gulled. But it was there: the 49th Street office and another on 93rd Street.
I took an uptown bus on Eighth Avenue, still smarting at the ease with which I and my money had been parted.
The Reapes lived on Sorry Street, between Somber and Gaunt. The tallest building on the block appeared to be a welfare hotel; most of the brownstones had been converted to rooming houses, with drawn shades at the windows instead of curtains; and the basement stores all had front windows tangled with dusty ivy, drooping ferns, and scrawny philodendrons. Graffiti was everywhere, much of it in Spanish. I wondered what puta meant.
The Reapes' house was one of the better buildings, a three storey structure of grey stone, now greasy and chipped. There were few remnants of its former elegance: a fancily carved lintel, bevelled glass in the door panels, an ornate brass escutcheon around the knob.
I pushed the bell alongside M. REAPE and waited.
Nothing. I tried again. Still no answer. I tried once more, with no result. When I went back down to the sidewalk, an elderly lady with blue hair was just starting up the steps.
She was laden down with two heavy bags of groceries.
'May I help you, ma'am?' I asked.
She looked at me, frightened and suspicious.
'Just up to the front door,' I said. 'Then I'll go away.'
'Thank you, young man,' she said faintly.
I carried her bags up and left them beside the inner door.
When I came out again, she had negotiated only three steps, pausing on each one to catch her breath.
'Asthma,' she said, clutching her chest. 'It's bad today.'
'Yes, ma'am,' I said sympathetically. 'I wonder if you — '
'Sometimes it's like a knife,' she said, wheezing. 'Cuts right through me.'
'I'm sure it's painful,' I said. 'I'm looking for — '
'Didn't get a wink of sleep last night,' she said. 'Cough, cough, cough.'
'Mrs Reape,' I said desperately. 'Mrs Martin Reape. She lives here. I'm trying to find her.'
The suspicion returned.
'What do you want with her?' she demanded. 'You're too sawed off to be a cop.'
'I'm not a cop,' I assured her. 'It's about her husband's insurance.'
That hooked her.
'Did he leave much?' she whispered.
'I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that. I'm sure you understand. But I think Mrs Reape will be happy to see me.'
' Well. . ' the old lady said, sniffing, 'she ain't exactly hurting from what I hear. Unless I miss my guess, young man, you'll find her at The Dirty Shame. That's a saloon on the next block towards Broadway.'
The Dirty Shame was one long, reasonably clean room, with a few tables and booths in the rear. But most of the action was at the bar. When I entered there was no doubt that a party was in progress. There must have been at least forty men and women in attendance.
The air was clotted with smoke and the din was continuous — shouts, laughter, snatches of song — competing with a juke box playing a loud Irish jig. Two bartenders were hustling and the bartop was awash. A beefy, red-faced celebrant clamped an arm about my shoulders.
'Friend of Marty's?' he bawled.
'Well, actually, I'm — '
'Step right u p, ' he shouted, thrusting me towards the bar. 'Blanche is picking up the tab.'
A glass of beer was handed to me over the heads of the mob. My new friend slapped me heartily on the back; half my beer splashed out. Then he turned away to welcome another newcomer.
It was a raffish crew that filled The Dirty Shame. They all seemed to know each other. I moved slowly through the throng, looking for the widow.
I finally found her, surrounded by a circle of mourners who were trying to remember the words of 'When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.' She was a suety woman with a mass of carroty hair, heavily made up. She wore a white moustache of beer foam. Her widow's weeds were of some thin, shiny material, straining at the seams and cut low enough in front to reveal the exuberant swell of a freckled bosom which had been heavily powdered.
'Mrs Reape,' I said, when she paused for breath, 'I'd like to express my — '
'What?' she yelled, leaning down to me from her stool.
'I can't hear you with all this fucking noise.'
'I want to tell you how sorry I — '
'Sure, sure,' she said, patting my shoulder. 'Very nice.
Hey, your glass is empty! Tim, let's have a biggie over here! You a friend of Marty's?'
