Inspector Queen’s Own Case

Richard Queen said quietly, “Keep your eyes open and stay under cover. I’m on my way.”

They walked over; it was only a few blocks. The night was hot and humid, but Inspector Queen set a quick pace. There was no sign of George Weirhauser.

“I wonder why,” Jessie panted. Her girdle was killing her, but she would have died rather than ask him to slow down.

“Either his job is done or our staying in all day’s fooled him.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

The kerbs on both sides of 88th Street were packed with cars. How he knew Jessie could not imagine, but he stopped suddenly near one of the parked cars to light a cigarette, and a man’s voice from inside the car said, “Okay, Inspector.”

“Where’s Giffin staked out, Johnny?”

“Up there on the floor somewhere. If you don’t want the lobby man to see you, there’s a side service entrance. This side of the building. Delivery elevator is self-service.”

“You’re clairvoyant, Johnny.”

Kripps laughed. Jessie wondered what he looked like.

The Inspector strolled her slowly toward a shadowed area near the service entrance. The entrance had a weak caged bulb over it. He stopped her in the shadow. A car was cruising by, and a portly man in a Hawaiian shirt was trudging toward them from West End Avenue followed by a woman who was walking as if her feet hurt. The woman was jabbering a steady stream; the man kept wading on, deaf. He turned into the apartment house entrance and the woman went in after him.

“Now, Jessie.”

Jessie found herself stumbling down three steps into a sort of tunnel. Ahead was darkness. He took her hand and led the way, trailing his other hand along the inner wall.

“Here’s the door.”

They entered a cluttered, sour-smelling basement, dimly lit. There was a trash can in the elevator.

The elevator went up creaking and groaning. It seemed to Jessie it was making enough noise to be heard over on Broadway. But the old man merely watched the floors move by.

“Why are we sneaking in this way, Richard?”

“We’re not exactly in a position to operate openly. What the lobby man can’t see won’t hurt us.” He sounded grim.

The elevator stopped, swaying. He opened the door and they stepped into a dingy rear hall. He shut the elevator door noiselessly.

There were four apartment doors, lettered A, B, C and D. He went over to the fire stairway to look down into the well. Then he moved over to the stairs leading up, and peered. They were on the top floor. This flight undoubtedly led to the roof exit, but the whole upper part of the staircase was in darkness.

“Giffin?”

“Yeah, Inspector.” The ex-detective’s voice sounded a little surprised. “I thought with Kripps covering the street, I’d cover the back stairs.”

“Okay.”

He went to the door lettered C and put his forefinger on the bell button. C was one of the two rear apartments.

Jessie held her breath. Little Michael’s mother at last...

A latch chain rattled. The door opened a couple of inches.

“Who is it?”

She had a deep, slightly hoarse voice. Jessie caught a glint of gold hair, a slash of lipstick.

“Miss Connie Coy?”

“Yes?”

Richard Queen held his shield-case up for her inspection. “May we come in?”

“Police?”

Just the merest tremble of fear, Jessie thought, in that sugared voice. One large hazel eye, heavily mascaraed, shot a glance in Jessie’s direction.

“What do you want with me?” She made no move to open the door.

“Let us in, please, Miss Coy,” he said quietly. “I don’t think you want the neighbors in on this.”

She undid the latch chain then, stepping back with the door fast.

Connie Coy was clutching a green terry cloth housecoat about her, glancing from Richard Queen to Jessie and back again. Jessie saw now that her gold hair had greenish roots and that the makeup did not entirely conceal tired, biting lines. She was wearing dark green sandals. Her toenails were painted gold.

The old man shut the door and hooked the chain back.

“Sorry to barge in on you this way, Miss Coy, but it couldn’t be helped. I’m Inspector Queen, this is Miss Sherwood. Where can we talk?”

“But what’s this all about?” She was openly frightened now.

“Is that your living room in there?”

He went swiftly through the neat little kitchen into a big studio room.

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Coy,” Jessie said in her soft voice.

The girl gave her a puzzled look. Then she laughed and poked at her hair. “I’ve never had a visit from the police before,” she said. “Are you a policewoman?”

“I’m a trained nurse.”

She seemed rooted to the floor. But then she said, “Won’t you come in?” and stepped aside.

They went into the studio room. Richard Queen was in the bedroom, looking into the bathroom. Open suitcases were strewn about the bed and the floor. Evening gowns lay everywhere.

“What are you looking for, Inspector?” the girl asked nervously.

“Just making sure we’re alone.” He came back, frowning.