Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

It was twenty past twelve when I left the Heron in a parking lot and walked a block and a half to Number 2938, which was a regulation ten-story brick hive, to be found in all five boroughs, but especially the Bronx. Of course it might not be the right Barry Fleming, but I would soon find out. The tiled floor of the lobby had a rubber runner, no rugs. There was no doorman, but the elevator man was there, a pasty-faced bozo in a uniform that was past due for the cleaner and presser, leaning against the wall. I advanced and said, "Fleming, please."

He shook his head and said, "There's nobody there."

"I know," I said, "that Mrs. Fleming isn't receiving any strangers, but I'm not a newspaperman. I want to discuss a personal matter with her, and I'm sure she would want to." In his case, the face was the index of the mind. He wasn't impressed and wasn't going to be. The only question was how much. I removed my gloves, got out my case and extracted a card, got out my wallet and extracted a finif, and said, "On the level. Do you want to see my license? Take me up, and if she doesn't let me in I'll double this."

He took the card and looked it over, took the bill and stuck it in a pocket, and said, "On the level, there's nobody there. She went out around ten o'clock."

He deserved a good poke, but it wouldn't have been tactful. I merely asked, "Do you know where she went?"

He shook his head. "No idea."

"Do you know when she'll be back?"

"No, I don't."

I gave him a friendly smile. "That's not fifty cents' worth, let alone five bucks'." I got my wallet again and took out a ten. "What floor is she on?"

"Seven. Seven D."

"I need to see her, and she needs to see me. Take me up, and I'll wait there. You have my card. If you want to, get an inkpad and take my fingerprints."

He surprised me. He had a heart in him somewhere. He actually said, "She might be gone all day, and there's no place to sit."

"There's always the floor."

He gave me his eyes, looked straight at me for the first time. "No funny business, mister. The doors have got pretty good locks."

"I don't know anything about locks. There's nothing there for me until she comes." I went to the elevator and pressed my fingertips, all ten, against the metal frame, at eye level. "There. You've got me." I offered the sawbuck. He took it, followed me into the elevator, shut the door, and pushed the handle.