'There's an ice-pick in the bedroom. Check it for prints. Snap it up! I want a little more action and a lot less standing around from you.'
Fletcher stiffened.
'Yes, sergeant.'
Donovan walked out of the apartment.
Adams stared after him, then he went back into the bedroom to talk to Summerfeld.
II
Raphael Sweeting heard the urgent ring on his frontdoor bell, and he hastily wiped his sweating face on the sleeve of his dressing-gown.
He had seen the police cars arrive, and he knew, sooner or later, the front-door bell would ring.
What had happened? he asked himself. Something in the apartment above. He could hear the heavy footfalls overhead. His mind flinched away from murder, but he was sure she had been murdered. Just when he was settling down; just when he had been certain he had succeeded in dropping out of sight.
The bell rang persistently, and he looked hastily around the dusty, shabbily furnished room. All evidence of his evening activities had been hastily hidden. It had been a business to clear the room, but the arrival of the police cars had at least warned him a police visit was pending.
The big cupboard against the wall had been crammed with the mass of papers, envelopes, directories and the telephone books he used in his work, and the key had been turned. They wouldn't dare open the cupboard unless they had a search warrant. Even if they did open it, they couldn't pin anything on him, but it would tell them he was still up to his old tricks.
Leo, the Pekinese, crouched in the armchair, staring across the room at the front door. The dog breathed heavily, and looked with frightened eyes at its master as if it knew an enemy was on the far side of the door.
Sweeting touched the dog's head gently, but the dog sensed his fear and wasn't reassured.
Sweeting crossed the room, turned the key, braced himself and opened the door.
He stared up at the big man who towered above him, and it was a relief to see it wasn't Lieutenant Adams. This man he had never seen before.
'Did you want something?' he asked, trying to smile, but succeeding only in making a fixed grimace.
'I'm a police officer,' Donovan said. He was asking himself where he had seen this fat little man before. His slow-thinking mind groped into the past, but failed to pin-point the irritatingly familiar features. 'Who are you?'
'Sweeting is the name.' The little man held the door against him, obstructing Donovan's view into the room. 'Is something wrong?'
'A woman's been murdered in the apartment above,' Donovan told him. 'Did you see anyone going into her apartment last night?'
Sweeting shook his head.
'I'm afraid I didn't. I went to bed early; besides, I keep to myself. I don't pay attention to what goes on in this house.'
Donovan had a frustrated feeling that he wasn't being told the truth.
'Did you hear anything?'
'I'm a heavy sleeper,' Sweeting said. He realized that this big, hard-faced man wasn't dangerous. He hadn't been recognized. Sweeting had seen Adams arrive, and he had feared Adams would visit him. He knew the Lieutenant would have recognized him. 'I'm sorry I can't be of assistance to you. I didn't even know the young woman. I've seen her once or twice, of course. We pass on the stairs. Murdered, you say? How dreadful!'
Donovan glared at him.
'You saw nobody and you heard nothing?'
'That's right. If there's nothing else, perhaps you will excuse me? You got me out of bed.' Sweeting began to close the door very slowly, smiling at Donovan.
Donovan couldn't think of anything else to ask him. He realized he had lost the initiative, as he so often did, but there was nothing he could do about it. He nodded curtly and stepped back.
With a bland little smile, Sweeting closed the door and Donovan heard the key turn.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head, rubbed his jaw and crossed the landing to the head of the stairs.
Where had he seen that fat punk before? he asked himself. Had he a record or had he seen him on the street some time? He was sure Adams would know. Adams never forgot a face. With an angry shrug he went on down the stairs to the next-floor apartment.
Half an hour later he arrived in the hall; half an hour wasted. No one knew anything.
A tiny spark of panic was glowing inside him. To have to return to tile
top apartment and tell Adams, with Fletcher and Holtby listening, that he had discovered nothing, was not to be thought of. Savagely he rammed his thumb into the bell-push of the yellow-painted front door.
May Christie opened the front door. She, too, had seen the police cars arrive, and had known she was going to receive a visit from the police. She had fortified herself with a slug of gin, and Donovan could smell it on her breath.
'I'm a police officer,' he said. 'I want to talk to you.'
