He meant to shake hands, that was all, to say good night. But for some reason he found her in his arms, his face against her hair and his hands pressed tight to the soft velvet skin of her back. When he kissed her she returned the kiss fiercely and he knew everything would be all right.
Later, lying on the crisp expanse of the bed, he could feel the touch of her warm body at his side and the light stir of her sleeping breath on his cheek. The hum of the air-conditioner seemed to make the night more quiet, covering and masking all the other sounds. He had had too much to drink, he realized now, and smiled up at the darkness. So what? If he had been sober he might never have ended up where he was. He might feel sorry in the morning, but at the present moment this felt like the best thing that had ever happened to him. Even when he tried to feel guilty he couldn’t; his hand tightened possessively on her shoulder and she stirred in her sleep. The curtains were parted slightly and through the opening he could see the moon, distant and friendly. This is all right, he said, this is all right, over and over again to himself.
The moon burned in through the open window, a piercing eye in the night, a torch in the breathless heat. Billy Chung had slept a little, earlier, but one of the twins had had a nightmare and wakened him and he had lain there wide awake ever since. If only the man hadn’t been in the bathroom… Billy rolled his head back and forth, biting at his lower lip, feeling the sweat beading his face. He hadn’t meant to kill him, but now that he was dead Billy didn’t care. He was worried about himself. What would happen when they caught him? They would find him, that’s what the police were for, they would take the tire iron out of the dead man’s head and go over it in their laboratory the way they did and find the man who had sold it to him… His head rolled from side to side on the sweat-dampened pillow and a low, almost voiceless moan was forced between his teeth.
9
“That’s not much of a shave you got there, Rusch,” Grassioli said in his normal, irritated tone of voice.
“It’s no shave at all, lieutenant,” Andy said, looking up from the sheaf of reports on the desk. The lieutenant had noticed him while he was passing the detective squadroom on the way to the clerical office; Andy had hoped to sign in and leave the precinct without meeting him. He thought fast. “I’m running down some leads over near Shiptown this afternoon, I didn’t want to be too obvious. There probably isn’t one razor in that whole neighborhood.” That sounded good enough. The truth was he had come in late this morning, direct from Chelsea Park, and never had a chance to shave.
“Yeah. What’s the progress on the case?”
Andy knew better than to remind the lieutenant that he had been working on it only since the previous evening.
“I’ve found out one positive thing that relates to it.” He looked around, but there was no one else within earshot, and he continued in a lower voice. “I know why the pressure has been put on the department.”
“Why?”
The lieutenant flipped through the pictures of Nick Cuore and his henchmen while Andy explained the significance of the heart on the window and the identity of the men who were interested in the murder.
“All right,” Grassioli said when he had finished, “don’t write a damn thing about this in any reports, unless you find anything leading to Cuore, but I want you to tell me everything that happens. Now get going, you wasted enough time around here.”
It was a record-breaker. Day after day had passed, but the heat stayed the same. The street outside was a tub of hot, foul air, unmoving and so filled with the stench of dirt and sweat and decay that it was almost unbreathable. Yet, for the first time since the heat wave had set in, Andy did not notice it. The previous night was an overwhelming though still unbelievable presence, impossible to put out of his mind. He tried to, he had work to do, but Shirt’s face or body would slip around the edges of memory and, despite the heat, he would once again feel the sensation of suffused warmth. This wouldn’t do! He smashed his right fist into his open palm and had to smile at the startled looks of the nearby people in the crowd. There was work to do, a lot of it, before he could see her again.
He turned into the alleyway that ran between the locked row of garages behind Chelsea Park and the edge of the moat, leading to the service entrance to the buildings. There was a rumble of wheels behind him and he stepped aside to let a heavy tugtruck pass, a square, boxlike body mounted on old auto wheels, guided by the two men who pulled it. They were bent almost double and aware of nothing except their fatigue. As they plodded by, just a few feet from him, Andy could see how the traces cut into their necks, gouging into the permanent ulcers on their shoulders that stained their shirts wet with pus.
Andy walked slowly behind the tugtruck, stopping while he was still out of sight of the entrance, then leaning over the edge of the moat. Filth and rubbish littered the concrete bottom below, and there were wide gaps between the granite blocks where the cement had fallen away. It would be easy enough to climb down the wall after dark, there were no revealing lights nearby. Even in the daytime an intruder would only be noticed by someone glancing out of the closest windows. No one was watching when Andy let himself over the edge and clambered slowly to the bottom; it was like going into an oven here, with the heat trapped by the high walls. He ignored it as best he could and walked along the inner wall until he found the window with the heart on it it was very easy to spot and would probably be as easily seen at night as well. There was a ledge just below the row of cellar windows and he found he could lever himself up onto it — and it was wide enough to stand on. Yes, it was very possible to jimmy open the window standing here; the murderer could have broken into the building this way. Sweat dripped from his chin and made dark spots on the concrete of the ledge, the heat was getting to him.
“What do you think you’re doing there! You’re going to get your head broken!” The voice shouted down at him and he straightened and looked up at the drawbridge that crossed the moat, at the doorman standing there, shaking his fist. He recognized Andy and his voice changed abruptly. “Sorry — I didn’t see it was you, sir. Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes — get me out of here. Do any of those windows open?”
“Just move along a bit, the next one over your head, it’s a lobby window.” The doorman vanished and a few moments later the window creaked open and his wide face stuck out.
“Give me a lift,” Andy said. “I’m half cooked.” He took the doorman’s hand and scrambled up. The lobby was dim and cool after the sun-blasted heat of the moat. He wiped at his face with his handkerchief. “Is there any place where we can talk — where I can sit down?”
“In the guardroom, sir, just follow me.” There were two men there; the one in building uniform jumped to his feet when they came in. The other was Tab. “Get on the door, Newton,” the doorman ordered. “You want to go with him, Tab?”
Tab glanced at the detective. “Sure, Charlie,” he said, and followed the guard out.
“We got some water here,” the doorman said. “Want a glass?”
“Great,” Andy said, dropping into a chair. He took the plastic beaker and drained half of it, then slowly sipped the rest. Facing him was a gray-tinted window that looked out into the lobby; he couldn’t remember seeing any window there on the way in. “One-way glass?” he asked.
“That’s right. For the residents’ protection. It’s a mirror on the other side.”
“Did you see where I was in the moat?”
“Yes, sir, it looked like you were just outside the cellar window, the one that got jimmied open.”
“I was. I came down the other side of the moat, from the back alley, crossed it and climbed up by the window. If it was nighttime do you think you would have seen me there?”
“Well…”
“A plain yes or no will do. I’m not trying to trap you into anything.”
“The building management, they’re already doing something about the security, it’s mostly the trouble with
