“Marjorie,” Dash said, “tell me about Mrs. Avery’s keys.”
“She left them at your place, didn’t she? Oh my, what was it, a few nights ago—”
Dash took a chance. “Sunday?”
“Yes, Sunday. Very late in the evening. She comes running up while I’m out getting some fresh air. The heat has been something fierce and I couldn’t go to sleep, so I came out here to cool off. And here she comes up the walk, all breathless and shaken. I said, ‘Careful you don’t trip and break your ankle in those shoes, dear.’ And that’s when she said she needed me to let her in. She’d forgotten her keys at a friend’s place.”
Marjorie looked expectedly at Dash.
“Isn’t that why you’re here, young man? To return her keys? I assume the friend was you.”
Sunday?
Dash’s heart went pitty-pat. Another clue.
“I . . .” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Why would you assume she was with me that night?”
Her grin was shrewd. “I told you I had thin walls, didn’t I? I heard you talking with Mrs. Avery. She said your name quite clearly and you replied back. You both have spent a bit of time in the apartment while Paul was away.” She lowered her voice to conspiratorial levels. “I won’t breathe a word. You can count on my discretion.”
“How do you mean?”
“Mrs. Avery has her life and Mr. Avery has his. Why, he’s been hanging around that masculine woman for weeks now. I’m surprised Mrs. Avery hasn’t mentioned her to you. Let me see, what is her name . . . ?”
Joe said, “Pru?”
“That’s her! Striking woman, even if she flaunts natural convention wearing men’s clothes.”
Dash said, “Do you ever overhear what Mr. Avery and Pru talked to about?”
Marjorie lightly smacked his hand. “Now, now. If I promise you discretion, I must keep my word about his. Anyway, go on up there and return the keys.”
She unlocked the door and let them in to the small, cramped foyer. Wood floors, brick walls, wood stairs. The air was musty and smelled of mothballs and sour milk. A baby cried somewhere above them. Dash nodded to Marjorie and led the upwards with Joe at his heels. Marjorie stayed in the foyer.
“I thought you said this Paul fellow was our girl?” whispered Joe, as they climbed the creaking, groaning stairs. “What does this mean, lassie?”
“I honestly have no clue,” Dash whispered back.
“Tyler and Mrs. Avery. Mr. Avery and Pru.” Joe shook his head. “I can’t make heads or tails of this.”
They reached the second floor and made their way to apartment 2A. Conversations murmured behind neighboring doors, complemented by the rattle of pots and pans and the pungent aroma of sausages and onions. Apartment 2A was at the end of the hallway, towards the front of the building.
Joe’s brow furrowed even deeper into the folds of his red skin. “What do we do if she answers?”
“First, we say hello and introduce ourselves.”
Joe rolled his eyes as Dash knocked on the door.
Marjorie called up from below. “She’s out! They both work and they usually don’t come back until late. Just slide the keys under the door.”
Dash and Joe looked at each other and shrugged. They waited a few seconds and then returned to the foyer where the landlady was waiting.
Dash tipped his hat. “Thank you, Marjorie. We appreciate it.”
She smiled benevolently. “You are quite welcome. Tell her next time to tie her keys to a string and tie that string to her wrist.”
“I will.”
Dash and Joe waited until they were a block away, well out of earshot of Marjorie Norton.
Joe remarked, “The hearing that lady has!”
“I’d pay millions to know what she overheard from Paul and Pru. You know they talked about this case.”
“If they were talking about a case at all.”
“You believe Marjorie?”
“Hell, lassie, this decade, why shouldn’t a masculine woman and a feminine man get together?”
“Why not, indeed.”
They reached the next cross section of streets and were drowned in the sea of noise of the evening rush hour. The rattle of motors, the squeal of changing gears, the impatient blasts of horns. The clanging bell of trolleys and the shouts of cabbies as they zigzagged about.
Joe yelled, “What do we do now?”
Dash put his hands on his hips. “Damned if I know.”
21
Despite Joe’s objections, Dash returned alone to 86th Street to give his update, such as it was, to Walter Müller. Joe wanted to accompany Dash, to make sure he was safe against this “blackmailin’ bloody bluenose,” but Dash assured him he’d be jake.
“As long as he thinks he’s getting closer to the female impersonator and to Pru,” Dash said, “he’ll keep us around.”
Joe was skeptical. “I don’t know about that, lassie. We’re in over our head.”
He wasn’t wrong, but Dash couldn’t afford to have a night without a bartender. They might need to buy their way out of this trouble, and if that was the case, they needed all the sugar they could get.
Dash soon found himself in an IRT car rattling eastbound, then northbound until 86th Street. The wind had picked up, a hot exhale blowing down the streets. He knew in his heart of hearts he couldn’t turn in Paul Avery to Walter. At least not yet. Not until he had proof of something dastardly or murderous. And he couldn’t in good conscience give up Prudence Meyers and her law firm. Yet he also couldn’t give Walter nothing again.
Perhaps this meeting didn’t have to be about them. Perhaps Walter needed to know Tyler Smith was dead. Dash was interested in the man’s reaction. Would it be indifference? Surprise? Worry?
Dash found the nondescript building on 86th Street near Avenue A. He walked up the stoop, took a deep breath, and rang the buzzer. He had to buzz twice before he heard commotion above in the form of a door being opened and shut, followed by heavy, angry feet on the stairs.
Walter soon appeared on the landing dressed impeccably in a gray suit, which
