Courthouse (36 page)

“But how would you get to her apartment from there?” asked Franco. “That gate probably only leads to the back elevator. The elevator guy's see you.”

“In this business, Franco, you can't be lazy.” Johnny smiled. “There's got to be a fire stairway in there too. So you walk up.”

“And get down the same?”

Johnny nodded. “Right.”

The two men crossed the street. Johnny, side-glancing as he neared the building, noticed the doorman busy opening the door of a cab for someone. “Keep moving,” he whispered.

They walked directly to the gate, swung it open, and closed it behind them. Inside the gate was an arched, whitewashed tunnel, lit by a bare, high-watt bulb. The two of them walked through the tunnel toward the rear of the building. At the end of the tunnel was a large, open air shaft and a double door leading inside. Franco entered; Johnny was right behind him. They were now in a whitewashed brick room which had a large wooden desk against one wall; on the desk was an intercom phone connected with the front entrance and all the apartments above. At the far side of the room there was an interior door. They walked through the doorway. Just inside was a service elevator and, next to that, a steel stairway. The stairway was entirely covered with a heavy steel mesh grating, and at the foot of the steps, there was a locked gate.

Franco looked at the lock on the stairway gate. “This lock only opens from the inside,” he said. He looked up as he heard the noise of someone's footsteps. Johnny looked in the direction from which the sound came. But the footsteps faded into a further portion of the basement.

“I could open that faster than most people with the key,” said Johnny.

“Yeah, let's do it,” Franco said enthusiastically.

Johnny took something from his pocket, pressed it into the side of the lock, and within a moment had opened it.

Franco smiled in admiration.

“Now we're inside,” said Johnny. “Easy as that! Go up these stairs, and you'll hit every back door to every apartment in the building. Open those locks, and you're home free to easy pickings.”

“That's easy picking for you, Johnny,” said Franco. “But what about a guy who is a legitimate guy, and he wants to get in and out secret-like? What do you figure he'd do?”

“Same thing. These stairs are the only way up to the flats without going on the outside fire escape, and without going up on the elevators. He'd have to make it through this gate and the back door. If he could break them, he could do it.”

“How about if a guy got a key from somebody?” asked Franco. “Then he wouldn't have to know locks or nothing. This would be a cinch. Only thing, maybe, you might run into the elevator operator.”

“With a key, this'd be nothing,” replied Johnny. “But what the hell is this all about? You mind telling me?”

“A guy got killed upstairs. We represent the wife.”

“Oh, and she croaked him?” Johnny asked.

Franco shrugged. “Who knows! But I got my doubts. That's why I want you to case the setup. I want to see how somebody could come in the apartment and leave without nobody seeing him.”

“If he got in and out of these doors, it'd be real easy,” said Johnny. “You figure the wife's being framed?”

“Can I help you?” asked a red-faced, short man with an Irish brogue. There was a faint aroma of beer about him. He was dressed in a gray work shirt and pants. The name “James” appeared embroidered on his shirt pocket.

“Hiya, James,” said Franco. “We're working with Mrs. Wainwright's lawyer. You know, on the trouble she's got”

James looked at Franco, then Johnny, with dull suspicion. Franco took out his wallet, which perked up the workman's face. His keenness faded as Franco handed him one of Marc's business cards. The workmen looked at the card, then to Franco again, then to Johnny. Franco now took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet, extending it toward the workman.

“We need some information,” said Franco. “I thought you might be able to help us out.”

The workman's keen eyes lit on the fiver quickly. “I don't know nothing about that trouble that woman has,” he said, still looking at the money, “but if I can help you“—he snared the fiver—” I'll tell you whatever I know.”

“Who was on duty back here the night Mister Wainwright was killed?” asked Franco.

The workman gazed at the ceiling. “That was a Sunday night, I remember we all talked about it when I got to work the next day.”

“Does that mean you didn't work the night Mister Wainwright was killed?” asked Franco.

“Oh, I worked all right, the four to midnight shift,” he replied. “I always work four to midnight on Sunday and Monday. The rest of the week, I work the front car, midnight to eight in the morning.”

“Who worked midnight to eight the next morning?” Franco pursued. “Who was back here on duty when Wainwright was killed?”

“No one,” the workman replied. “There's never a man on the service car—that's this here rear car—for the late shift.”

“That'd make it ever easier,” Johnny said to Franco. “You wouldn't even have to worry about running into the elevator guy.”

The buzzer in the service elevator sounded.

“Oh, I have a call. I'll be right back.” The man entered the elevator car and slid the doors shut.

“You see, it's a real easy shot,” said Johnny. “If you got in here and knew how to open this gate or had a key for it, you could get in and out of any apartment and no-body'd know the difference.”

Franco nodded. “But say a guy didn't know from locks. How'd he get a key for the outside door and the stairway gate?”

Johnny shrugged. “Well, if we're talking about a guy who's always around, like you said about her boy friend, who belongs in the building, and who's got plenty of dough, I guess he could work something out with old booze-belly here. I'm sure this creep's got a key.”

The elevator descended and the door slid open. A Black woman with a laundry cart got off and disappeared into the rear of the basement.

“Do you know Zack Lord?” Franco asked the workman.

“Zack Lord, Zack Lord,” he repeated, no look of awareness coming into his face.

“Mrs. Wainwright's boy friend,” Franco added.

“Oh, the blond gentleman, you mean?”

“Right, the blond gentleman.”

“Sure, I know him. A fine man, a fine man.”

“Did you see him the night Wainwright was killed?” asked Franco.

“I told you I wasn't working after midnight,” the man emphasized. “Mister Wainwright was killed, as I've been told, after one
A.M.”

“Before you knocked off work, did you see him?” asked Franco.

The man pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “I did.”

“When was that? What time?” asked Franco.

“Well, the Mrs. was having a party, a lot of people over for dinner on Sunday night. I remember that, because it was a Sunday and most of the stores were closed, but she had this place humming. When the Mrs. wants to get something done, she gets it done. I don't know if you know her, but she's got some mouth on her. At times, you'd think she was one of the longshore boys on the river.”

“What time was it you saw Zack Lord?” Franco asked.

“If it's the blond fellow, who's been seeing the Mrs. since Mister Wainwright moved out, then I saw him in the afternoon. He must have been here, well, I guess it was the early evening. Maybe seven o'clock.”

“Where?”

“Right here, of course,” said the man, pointing to the basement environs. “The Mrs. has a wine room in the basement here. Stores all her wines in there, she does. It's locked like Fort Knox, too,” he bemoaned. “This fella, Mister Lord you say his name is, comes down the back elevator with me. And he goes into that storage room. He's got the keys to all them locks, and he opens the wine room, and I carry a case of wine to the elevator and then into the apartment upstairs.”

“You sure this was the night of the party, the night when Mister Wainwright was killed?” asked Franco.

“As sure as I am that we're standing here.”

“How come you remember it so good?” asked Franco.

“Because I do, that's all,” the workman replied obdurately. “When I get me out of the bed the next morning, I see the papers, and I read about the killing. And I remembered very well, then, that I worked the day before, and that I delivered the case of wine for the party. That's how it is that I remember. Besides, he gave me a bottle of wine,” he now whispered confidentially. “That's how I know. It was one hell of a wine, it was, too.”

Franco and Johnny looked at each other. “How well
do
you know Mrs. Wainwright's boy friend?” asked Johnny.

“Just from seeing him around, you know? I see him all the time on the front elevator,” the workman replied. “You see, like I said, I run the front car on the midnight to eight in the morning shift, three days a week. And I run the service car from four to twelve two days a week. So I'd see the boy friend quite a little when I'm in the front, after he'd take the Mrs. home.”

“Was he friendly?”

“Indeed, indeed, he was, indeed he was,” replied the workman. “Always right down to earth, if you know what I mean. And yet I'm sure he had the price of a good pair of shoes in his change pocket. Every once in a while, he'd leave a short taste for me in a glass on the foyer table outside the apartment. I'd be doing my nightly cleaning, and what would I see from time to time, but a glass of the spirits sitting there waiting for me as I'm polishing past the Mrs.' floor.”

“He'd slip you booze?” said Franco.

“Unless it was the ghosts, it was him all right. He'd leave the glass there on the table for me. The Mrs. sure never left it.”

“He ever leave more than one glass for you in one night?” Franco asked.

“You mean, two glasses at a time?” replied the workman.

“No. I mean, after you finished one, did you ever find another one later?”

“I did.”

“Do you have a key for these gates and doors?” Johnny asked.

“I do,” said the man proudly. He pointed to a ring of keys he wore attached to his belt at his left hip.

“You keep those keys with you?” asked Franco. “Or you leave them back here when you work the front car or go home?”

“Oh no. They stay with me. This is my own key ring, and the keys for the gates and doors is on it. I always have them.”

The bell for the elevator sounded again.

“You'll have to excuse me,” the man said. “I have to get upstairs now.”

“One more question before you go,” said Franco.

“What'd that be?” asked the man as he entered the car and was ready to let the doors slide shut.

“Who was on the front elevator that morning, the early morning when Mister Wainwright went up and was killed?”

“It was George McCormick,” said the man.

“You sure?” pressed Franco.

“I am. George and me, we spoke about it the next day. I told him about the wine, and he told me about bringing Mister Wainwright himself, Lord have mercy on him, up to the apartment just before he was killed.”

“Where's McCormick now?” asked Franco.

“He's on the front elevator this very minute. He's working this shift.” The bell sounded again. “Got to go,” the man said, letting the door slide shut.

“What now?” asked Johnny.

“I guess we go to see this guy McCormick,” replied Franco.

The two men made their way out of the basement, thought the tunnel, and into the street again. They walked to the front entrance. The doorman recognized Franco.

“Are you expected?” the doorman asked, moving toward the lobby phone.

“No,” said Franco. “I just want to talk to George McCormick for a minute anyway.”

“He's up on a run right now,” said the doorman. “He should be down in a moment.”

Franco and Johnny stood to the side of the lobby. The elevator doors opened a few minutes later. A woman in a pants suit, walking a small Yorkshire terrier, got off and went out to the street. The elevator operator stayed inside the car.

“Are you George McCormick?” asked Franco, walking to the elevator.

“Yes, sir. Did the doorman ring Mrs. Wainwright's apartment for you?”

“I don't want to go up,” Franco said. “I just want to talk to you for a moment.”

The elevator man looked at Franco, then at Johnny. “What about?”

“About the night Mister Wainwright was killed,” replied Franco. “I'm with the attorney for Mrs. Wainwright. You know that. And we have to get an idea of what happened that night.” Franco showed McCormick a five-dollar bill, making sure the doorman couldn't see it.

“I don't know what happened,” McCormick replied. He glanced at the doorman and deftly took the money. “I was working the elevator. I took Mister Wainwright up, and then the next thing I know, I hear noise. I didn't pay it no mind. But then the police came like it was the St. Patrick's Day parade right through the lobby.”

“What time did you go up with Mister Wainwright?” asked Franco.

“I must have taken him up, about, let's say, one o'clock.”

“Was he drunk or sober?”

“That's none of my business, you know,” McCormick said. “So I mind my own.” He paused. Then he couldn't resist the interest of his audience. “If you asked me, though,” he whispered, “I'd say he had a few.”

Franco asked, “Anything unusual happen that night before you went up there?”

“Nothing much. When we got there, the door was open a little, so Mister Wainwright could get in. That's all.”

“The door was open?”

“Yes. I didn't pay it no mind until the next day when I read the papers that he was killed,” said McCormick. “Then I remembered taking Mister Wainwright up to the apartment, and I remembered that the door was open.”