Read Murder on a Hot Tin Roof Online
Authors: Amanda Matetsky
Murder on a Hot Tin Roof (36 page)
And that’s when I saw it. A long black limousine! It came cruising up Third Avenue like a long black yacht, slowing down to rowboat speed as it approached Binky’s building.
Yikes! Is that Baldy’s limo? Did it follow me here? Who’s inside? Where can I hide? In the vestibule? No! Too Dangerous! What if Baldy’s bringing Binky home or something like that? I’d really be stuck then!
In a total panic—and for lack of a better alternative—I leapt over to the curb and crouched down on my haunches behind a parked two-tone Mercury (pink and white, in case you’re wondering). Then, hoping to get a glimpse of the limo’s passengers (and praying with all my might they would be strangers), I duck-walked up to the nose of the Mercury and craned my neck around the headlights, staring through the gap between the parked cars at the traffic going by on the street.
When the long black limo drove into my sight, I felt a surge of relief. At least it hadn’t stopped in front of Binky’s building. As I gazed up at the slowly passing vehicle, however, and tried to peer through the windows to see who was inside, I felt nothing but defeat. There were thick gray velvet curtains on the windows and they were closed.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing down there? Taking a leak?”
I turned my head and looked up. It was Abby. She was perched on a bicycle.
“Very funny,” I said, placing one hand on the hood of the Mercury and pulling myself up to a standing position. “For your information, I was hiding from a black limousine—which may, or may not, have been Baldy’s. See?” I said, pointing uptown. “It’s on the next block, headed north.”
One foot on the sidewalk for balance, Abby raised her head, shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed in the designated direction. “Yeah, I see it. It’s stopped at the light on Thirty-fourth.”
“I can’t read the license plate, can you?”
“No, it’s too far. Should I chase after it?”
“Are you nuts? You’ll never catch up. Not unless that bicycle has a motor.”
Abby laughed. “No, but it’s got everything else. Red frame and red handle grips. Silver fenders. White plastic seat. This beauty is a Schwinn Jaguar Deluxe and it’s built for speed, baby!”
“You sound like a commercial.”
“Hey, I really like this bike! And it got me here on time, didn’t it?”
“Sure did,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was only ten after twelve. (Time crawls when you’re scared for your life.) “Where did you get the cycle, Ab? From one of Jimmy’s friends?”
“No, I borrowed it from Fabrizio, a kid who lives down the block from us. He got it for his birthday. Told me I could use it anytime I want to.”
“Nice kid.”
“Real nice,” she said, dismounting, popping the kickstand and chain—locking the bike to a lamppost. “I owe Fabrizio one.” She straightened up and wiped her hands on the sides of her plaid pedal pushers. “Is this Binky’s building?” she asked, flipping her braid off her shoulder and nodding toward the five-story tan brick structure behind me.
“Yep!” I said, thrilling to the chase. “Let’s get going.”
Chapter 34
I RANG BINKY’S BUZZER A FEW MORE times, just to be on the safe side. He still didn’t answer.
“Okay, he’s not home,” I said to Abby, who was busy reading the other names on the mailboxes. “Let’s buzz somebody on the top floor to let us in.” Remembering how Abby had tricked Willy into letting us enter Gray’s building, I figured we should use the same buzzer tactic again. “Since Binky lives on the first floor,” I said, “we might be able to get inside his apartment before the person we buzz on the fifth floor ever gets suspicious or comes downstairs to look for us.”
“Good plan,” Abby said. “Let’s try Mrs. Lettie Forrest in 5C.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. Only what should I say when she answers? Should I pretend to be a messenger of some kind? Or say I have a telegram? Or maybe I should—”
“Oh, hush! I’ll do it!” Abby nudged me aside and pushed the buzzer for 5C without hesitation. “You always make such a
tsimmis
!”
tsimmis
!”
“Yes, who’s there?” came a tinny female voice over the intercom.
“Is this Mrs. Lettie Forrest?” Abby asked, answering the woman’s question with a question.
“Yes,” the woman tentatively replied. “Who’s this?”
“I’m from the flower shop down the street, ma’am. I have a delivery for you.”
“Flowers? For me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Should I bring them up?”
“Why, yes, of course!” she said, buzzing us in.
That was quick.
We pushed through the humming door and scurried across the tiny foyer to the apartment marked 1A. I gave the doorknob a hefty twist, but it was locked.
“Oh, no!” I whispered. “It’s locked!”
Abby propped her hands on her hips and gave me a weary look. “Oh, really?” she croaked. “What a shock! It’s so unfair the way people keep locking their doors these days! I don’t know what this world is coming to.”
“Shhhhh, keep your voice down.”
“I didn’t bring my purse,” she said, ignoring my plea for volume control. “Do you have a nail file or a bobby pin?”
“Yes, but those things don’t work! I’ve tried them in the past so I know. They only work in the movies.”
“Hand ’em over,” she said, holding out her palm. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”
I opened my purse and fished out the items. Then, while Abby was down on her knees wriggling the hairpin in the keyhole and trying to trip the latch with the nail file, I rooted through the rest of the stuff in my clutch bag, looking for something else—
anything
else—that might be useful. “Hey, how about this?” I said, removing an empty plastic photo holder from my new red leather Dale Rogers wallet (silly, I know, but they had a half-off sale in Woolworth’s). I held the holder up for her inspection. “I bet this’ll do the trick.”
anything
else—that might be useful. “Hey, how about this?” I said, removing an empty plastic photo holder from my new red leather Dale Rogers wallet (silly, I know, but they had a half-off sale in Woolworth’s). I held the holder up for her inspection. “I bet this’ll do the trick.”
Abby rose to full height and propped her hands on her hips again. “A piece of plastic?” she scoffed. “You expect to break open a door with a puny piece of plastic? What’s the matter, don’t you have anything stronger? A piece of gum, maybe? Or a Kleenex?”
“Oh, c’mon, Abby! I’m not fooling around! I wrote a clip story for the magazine about a cat burglar who used these things to break into people’s houses at night. No kidding! He told the police how they worked, and he said they were quiet, easy to carry, and practically infallible. I titled the story ‘Plastic-Packing Papa.’ Get it? It’s a play on ‘Pistol-Packing Mama’ and it—”
“Hello, flower girl?” Mrs. Lettie Forrest shouted from the top of the nearby stairwell. “Where are you? Are you coming up? Did you get lost?”
We didn’t answer her, of course.
“Hello?” she called again. “Is anybody down there?”
We remained as quiet as mice—or cat burglars, if you prefer.
Finally, after a couple more calls and ensuing silences, Lettie gave up. She went back inside her apartment and slammed the door.
I had broken out in a nervous sweat, but Abby was giggling. “Poor Lettie,” she said. “When I get home, I’ll send her some daisies. But for now, we’d better get to work, you dig?” She stepped away from the door and made a sweeping gesture toward the lock. “It’s all yours, babe. Give that wallet thingamabob a whirl. Maybe the plastic is magic!”
And believe it or not, it
was
. I sank into a squat, eased the stiff plastic picture holder between the lock and the doorjamb, gave it a wiggle and a jiggle and—click!—we were in.
was
. I sank into a squat, eased the stiff plastic picture holder between the lock and the doorjamb, gave it a wiggle and a jiggle and—click!—we were in.
BINKY’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL. VERY, very small. The kitchen was the size of a closet and the living room was so cramped Abby and I had to walk in single file to pass through it. Every piece of furniture in the room—the couch, two chairs, a table, and a television set—was set flush against a wall so as not to take up too much space. There was a separate bedroom, but all it could—and, indeed, did—hold was a small chest of drawers and a single bed.
“I don’t get it,” Abby said. “Binky’s a pretty big guy. How can he stand to live in such a tiny place?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad he does. It won’t take us long to case the joint.” (Humphrey Bogart or James Cagney, take your pick.)
“Where do we start?” Abby asked. “You said you wanted to look for a couple of things. What things?”
“The murder weapon primarily—a butcher knife, or something like that. Also a stash of bloody clothes and a pair of bloody shoes.”
“Ick!” Abby said, making a face. “The knife I understand—it could be cleaned up and put back in the drawer like nothing ever happened. But why the clothes? If Binky was the murderer, wouldn’t he have gotten rid of anything that had Gray’s blood on it?”
“If he was in his right mind,” I said, “and if he had the right opportunity. But those are two very big ifs.” I thought of my own bloody clothes and sandals, which were still sitting in a bag in the back of my coat closet, needing to be disposed of but totally forgotten until this very moment. “We know from Flannagan that the killer took a shower and changed his clothes before he left Gray’s apartment,” I went on, “and we know from our own firsthand observation that he didn’t leave anything—either the weapon or the gory clothes—at the scene.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So what did he do with them?” I questioned. “Maybe he burned them, or buried them, or tossed them in the East River. Or maybe he was so deranged and charged-up and afraid of getting caught that he ran straight home after the killing and hid the whole kit and caboodle in his apartment, figuring he’d get rid of the stuff after the heat blew over.” (Bogart, definitely Bogart.)
“Okay, okay! I hear you!” Abby said, shushing me up with her dismissive hand gestures. “That’s enough talking. We’re wasting time. You take the kitchen, I’ll start here in the living room.”
“Hey, wait a minute! Why the big rush? You said Binky would be gone all day. There’s no reason to hurry. I think we should take it real slow and do a very careful, thorough search of the premises. This is the only chance we’re ever going to get, and we can’t afford to do a sloppy job. This is really, really important!”
“I dig, I dig!” Abby said (impatiently, as usual). “I’ll crawl like a snail, Gail.” And to prove it she flipped on the living room light, dropped down to her hands and knees on the brown linoleum floor, then crawled across the room and stuck her head under the couch.
Anxious to get started myself, I darted into the minuscule kitchen, yanked open the drawer (there was only one), and started rummaging through the utensils. I found it almost immediately—a big knife with a broad, sharp blade; the kind used to cut up meat. I could easily imagine the large knife dripping with blood and gore, but the plain fact was—as of this minute, and as far as my unaided eye could see—it was clean as a whistle. Having no idea if this was the weapon that killed Gray Gordon, and no reasonable way to make that determination, I decided to leave the knife where it was for the time being and continue searching for real evidence (i.e., something with real blood on it).
I looked through the overhead cabinets lining the walls of the doorless, windowless kitchen, finding nothing but a couple of pots and pans, a can of beans, a box of Hi Ho crackers, three cans of Libby’s fruit cocktail, a box of Wheaties, a jar of Ovaltine, and a motley assortment of dishes and glasses. The cabinet under the sink offered nothing but a blue dishrag and a giant-size bottle of Glim dishwashing liquid.
Probably good for cleaning bloody knives,
I mused. The oven was empty, and—except for a bottle of milk and a half-eaten can of fruit cocktail—the midget refrigerator was, too.
Probably good for cleaning bloody knives,
I mused. The oven was empty, and—except for a bottle of milk and a half-eaten can of fruit cocktail—the midget refrigerator was, too.
“I found a knife,” I said, returning to the living room, “but I don’t know if . . . Abby? Where are you?”
“In the bathroom!” she hollered, which was totally unnecessary since the apartment was so small I would have heard a whisper. “I’m checkin’ out the clothes hamper.”
I walked over to the open door of the bathroom and watched Abby pull a couple of pairs of boxer shorts and a damp bath towel out of a narrow white wicker basket. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, digging around in the hamper like a hobo foraging for food in the trash.
“Is there anything bloody in there?” I asked.
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