Murder is a Girl's Best Friend (37 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Determined to find out what that something was, I lunged two steps forward and flung open the door.

Chapter 29

I WAS BLINDED BY THE BRIGHT OFFICE light. But, unfortunately, the blindness was only temporary. As my vision returned, a truly hideous sight flew up and hit me right between the eyes.

Roscoe Swift was lying on his back in the middle of the floor. His beady little eyes were startled and wide-open, staring up at the flat, white ceiling in dead dismay. There was a dime-sized hole in the center of his chest, and a huge circular bloodstain on his sleeveless undershirt. There was another bloody hole in his scrawny neck, just to the left of his prominent Adam’s apple. His pockmarked face was a ghastly shade of gray. Mouth gaping in a rictus of pain and alarm, he seemed to be growling, or howling—baring his little brown teeth in outrage.

I didn’t bother checking his pulse or holding a mirror to his nose to see if he was breathing. He was so dead it was definitive. And I didn’t want to touch anything—disturb any of the evidence. So I just stood there for a few minutes, gasping and crying, fighting the urge to throw up, doing my best not to scream or faint. And then—once I had myself under control (sort of)—I stood there for a few more minutes, taking careful mental notes on the crime scene.

Roscoe was wearing only a white undershirt, white boxer shorts, and a pair of black socks, which were held in place on his thin, bony shins by a pair of elastic garters. The rest of his clothes—his suit, tie, shirt, and belt—were draped over a chair near the desk. His watch, wallet, and keys were sitting on top of the desk. Tucked into the far corner of the room was a small, narrow cot—complete with dingy white sheets, a single pillow, and a drab green Army blanket. The bed looked lonely, messy, and slept-in. Lying on top of the rumpled blanket was an open copy of
Confidential
magazine.

So that’s the story,
I remarked to myself.
Roscoe was living here in his office. That’s why he’s not listed in the phone book.

I scanned my eyes around the rest of the small, windowless room, looking for clues as to what had happened, hoping to discover something that would identify Roscoe’s murderer (and maybe Judy’s murderer, too). But there wasn’t that much to see. No weapon. No signs of a struggle. Except for his personal effects and a big brown coffee-stained blotter, the top of Roscoe’s desk was bare. There were no ledgers, papers, or files in sight. No photos. No address book.

There
was
a phone, though, and—as you may have already surmised—the receiver was off the hook, dangling from its cord down the side of the desk like a gigantic leg-less black spider. The busy signal was still going strong, filling the air with its annoying bee-like buzz.

I wanted to stop the horrible sound. I wanted to walk into the room, step wide around Roscoe’s bloody corpse, shoot over to the desk and hang up the phone. Then I wanted to sit down at the desk, go through all the drawers, locate Roscoe’s telephone and address book, and find a listing for Lillian Smythe. And then—armed with hardcore proof of the Roscoe Swift/Lillian Smythe connection, proof that would force Detective Sweeny to revisit the Judy Catcher case—I wanted to pick up the phone again and call the police.

But I didn’t dare attempt to do any of those things. What if Lillian’s prints were on the receiver and I destroyed them by touching the phone? What if her prints were on the desk drawers, too? And what if Roscoe didn’t have Lillian listed in his address book? What if he didn’t even
have
an address book? My hands were tied. I couldn’t take the risk of destroying evidence while looking for it.

Deciding I should get out of there (fast) and call the police (anonymously) from another location, I stepped out of the room, returned the door to its original near-closed position, and made a hasty exit—leaving everything at Chelsea Realty just the way I’d found it. Then I dashed back out to Seventh Avenue and started walking (okay,
sprinting
) downtown, thinking I’d find at least one open candy store or coffee shop with a public phone.

No such luck. Every store I passed—including Henry’s Hardware, where I’d bought Lenny’s lunchbox—was closed up tight. I hurried all the way down to 24th Street before realizing the only open facility with a public phone I was likely to find would be a subway station. So I took off running, as fast as I could, toward the IRT entrance at 23rd Street.

But halfway there, I had another realization. All I had in my purse was one fifty-cent piece and a dime! And the subway change booths wouldn’t be open yet (if they opened at all on Christmas Day)! And if I used the dime to telephone the police, I wouldn’t be able to catch a train home (half dollars don’t fit in the turnstile slots)! I considered going straight home and calling the police from my apartment, but I really hated that idea. I felt the police should be notified immediately—and who knew how long I’d have to wait for a train? And what if the cops were able to trace the call back to me?

I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when a brilliant (okay,
beefheaded
) solution suddenly occurred to me.
John Wayne!
I cried to myself.
The Duke will save the day!

I turned on my heels and hit the trail back up to 26th Street, where I made a sharp left and galloped for Elsie Londergan’s apartment.

SHE ANSWERED RIGHT AFTER I BUZZED. ”Who’s there?” she snapped, voice spooky over the crackling intercom.

“Elsie, Elsie! It’s me, Paige Turner! Please let me in! It’s an emergency!”

She didn’t say anything more. She just buzzed the door open and I lunged inside. I was up the stairs in a flash. Elsie was standing tall in her open doorway, fully dressed in a green pleated skirt and a dark red cable stitch sweater. She even had on her lipstick.
What is she doing up so early?
I wondered.
Rushing out to a Christmas morning Mass? Tearing off to a sunrise canasta game?

Elsie took one look at me and croaked, “What’s the matter with you?! You look like you just saw the devil!” She pulled me inside and locked the door behind us.

“Oh, Elsie!” I cried, shuddering, still huffing from my wild race up the stairs. “I did just see the devil! And he’s dead!”

“Well, that’s good news for all of us,” she said, smiling, humoring me, giving her permanent waves a girlish pat. “So what’s the big emergency? What got you out of bed at this ungodly hour? Come sit down and tell me all about it.” She led me into the sitting room and motioned for me to take a chair.

“I can’t sit down, Elsie,” I said, still gasping for air, pacing in circles around the tiny room. “I have to call the police to report a murder. It’s your landlord! Roscoe Swift! He’s been shot!”

Her smile crumpled and her blue eyes widened in shock. “Roscoe? Shot? Are you sure? I can’t believe it!” She lowered herself into one of the two chintz-covered wing chairs that took up half the room and snatched a cigarette from the silver box on the table between them. Striking a match with unexpected force, she lit up and exhaled loudly. “How do you know about this?” she asked. “Did you see the body?”

“Yes! I did! Roscoe’s lying dead on the floor of his office, with one bullet hole in his chest and one in his neck. It’s horrible! Can I use your phone? I’ve got to notify the police.”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s on the night table in the bedroom. The number for the police station is there, too, on the pad right next to the telephone. I’ve been keeping it handy ever since Judy was killed.”

I charged into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the made-up bed, snatched up the receiver, and dialed the number on the pad. It rang about forty times. I was beginning to think the whole department had taken the day (or the night, or whatever) off, when a gruff voice finally answered.

“I’m calling to report a murder,” I said, in the steadiest, most masterful tone I could muster. (I was trying to imitate Perry Mason, but in my addled and breathless condition I probably sounded more like Daffy Duck.) “Please take this information down, sir. A man named Roscoe Swift has been shot to death on West 27th Street. The body can be found in the back room of the Chelsea Realty office.” I gave him the exact address, told him the office was unlocked, and begged him to send somebody in a hurry.

“Did you get all that down?” I asked. “Should I repeat the information?”

“I got everything, sister,” the gruff voice said. “Everything but
your
name and location. Who are you and where are you? How do you know the victim is dead? Did you discover the body? Are you calling from the scene?”

“Yes. I discovered the body, and I’m certain the victim is dead. I left the scene exactly as I found it. Please send a team out right away.” I hung up before he could ask for my name again.

I hated having to handle things in this cowardly, dishonest way. I wanted to get Detective Sweeny on the line, give him my true identity (as well as a big piece of my mind), and then tell him about everything that had happened since Terry Catcher first came to me and asked me to help him find his sister’s murderer. But I couldn’t do it. It was way too chancy. What if Sweeny refused to follow up on any of my leads, or acknowledge a connection between Roscoe’s and Judy’s homicides? What if he ignored all the data I’d gathered and continued to insist that Judy was shot during a random burglary? What if he demanded that the diamonds be returned to the police, and then threw Terry in jail for tampering with evidence? What if Sweeny told me—as he had told Elsie when she dared to question his facile conclusions about Judy’s murder—to stop being a busybody?

Then I’d have to kill
him,
and that wouldn’t do anybody any good.

Heaving a loud sigh of resignation, I stood up from Elsie’s bed and turned back toward the sitting room, head lowered in fatigue and dismay. I was in such a zombie daze that, even though I was standing right next to Elsie’ s bedroom wastebasket, and staring straight down at the wastebasket’s colorful, crumpled contents, I didn’t really see what I was seeing.

It took a few seconds for the ripped, partially wadded-up scraps of paper to come into focus. And a few more moments passed before the bold, familiar image printed on those scraps of paper began to register in my fuzzy brain: the curly white beard, the plump pink cheeks, the twinkling blue eyes, the bright red suit and cap, the big round belly like a bowl full of jelly. It was
m y
Santa Claus—the very same one that was pictured, repeatedly, on my Christmas wrapping paper.

The very same paper I had used to wrap up Lenny’s lunchbox.

A string of firecrackers went off in my brain.
Elsie?
Pop!
Could it have been Elsie?
Pop!
Did Elsie steal the lunchbox and push me down onto the subway tracks?
Pop!
Did Elsie break into my apartment?
Pop!
Did Elsie kill Judy? And Roscoe, too?
Pop! Pop! Pop! My head was so full of explosive questions I thought it would blast right off my neck.

“So what happened?” Elsie said, suddenly appearing in the doorless archway between the bedroom and the sitting room. “Was that Sweeny you were talking to? What did the dumbbell dick have to say?”

“It wasn’t Sweeny,” I mumbled, frantically trying to pull myself together. “It was somebody else. I told him about the homicide and they’re sending a team out right away.” So much adrenaline was shooting down my spine I was having trouble standing.

“Hey, you look horrible, Paige!” Elsie said. “Are you all right? You better come sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” She put her arm around my shoulders and tried to guide me into the sitting room.

“No!” I cried, recoiling from her touch. “I can’t stay! I’ve got to get home!” Translation:
I don’t drink tea with murderers.

“But you should rest a while first. You’ve had a big shock. You look as pale as a ghost.”