The Missing Chapter

I nodded somberly, putting on my insurance adjuster’s face. “A formality. As long as you’re here, Mr. Carlucci, perhaps you can help.” I fingered the knot on my tie. “The last few weeks, did Mr. Childress have any visitors who... well, who hadn’t ever been here before, or whom you didn’t recognize? It’s just a routine part of our investigation, you understand.”

Carlucci nodded grimly and pressed his lips together. “I really don’t pay no attention to who comes and goes around here, you know? I’m just the super, that’s all. I’m really sorry about what happened to Mr. Childress — he seemed like an okay guy, friendly, you know? But I never knew him all that well, except to say hi to once in a while and talk about the weather. I got so much to do that, hey, I barely got time to take a lunch break, you know?” He shrugged his burly shoulders.

“I know. Did you by chance notice if he had any visitors a week ago Tuesday — the day he died?”

“Uh-uh. After I found out what he done to himself, I wondered why I didn’t hear the shot. Then I remembered I was away for a couple of hours, at the hardware store, you know, getting some paint, and then I stopped by to see my sister in Little Italy. She’s just recovering from a stroke.”

“Did you know he kept a gun in the apartment?”

He rolled his eyes. “Nah, but I’m not surprised. Who doesn’t these days, you know? It’s an awful world.”

I agreed and said that I’d be leaving in just a few minutes, which seemed to relieve him. He backed out, pulling the door closed. I finished going through the books on the shelves, finding nothing, and I started for the front door. Don’t ask why I reached up on my way out, because I can’t supply an answer. Wolfe called it a fluke, I said it was instinct. Anyway, as I was leaving, I passed my hand along the top of the molding over the doorway to the foyer, expecting to get dust on my fingers. I did, but I also got a key. It was brass, for a door lock — I know that much after having studied locks and how to open them for the better part of my adult life.

This orphan was not a spare for any of the locks in the Childress apartment. I tried it on all of them, including the back door, which led to a gangway. And then, feeling stupid for having almost missed an obvious hiding place, I passed my hand along the moldings over all the other doors in the place. I got nothing but more dust — and a sliver in my right ring finger, which I couldn’t get out until I used tweezers at home later. Cursing silently, I tucked the mystery key in my pocket and left, walking east to Sixth Avenue, where, after waving my arm for five minutes, I got a northbound cab.

At eleven fifty-five, I spun through revolving doors into the two-story-high, white marble lobby of the GBC Tower on Sixth, checking in with an overfed guard in a dark blue uniform who was manning a desk that looked like a flight deck from one of the Star Wars movies. I asked him to call Debra Mitchell.

“Got an appointment?” he drawled, eyeing me as if I were selling vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias.

“No, but she’ll want to see me. The name is Archie Goodwin. You can tell her I’m here to talk to her about Charles Childress.”

It was obvious that neither name meant anything to him. He opened what apparently was a company phone book, let his fingers do the walking, and located a number, which he punched out on his instrument. He spun in his chair, giving me his broad back as he murmured something into the mouthpiece. He paused, did some more murmuring, then hung up and spun to face me.

“Seventeenth floor,” he said. “Here’s a badge, number two-eleven. Wear it at all times in the building, return it on your way out, and sign your name right here.” He thrust a loose-leaf notebook at me, and I scribbled my Hancock and the time on the lined paper.

The first thing I saw as the elevator doors opened at the seventeenth floor was a huge bronze eagle with outstretched wings — the logo of GBC — mounted on another white marble wall. Off to the left, at a white desk, was a pleasant-looking woman whose hair was — what else — white. “Can I help you?” she asked softly, peering over half-glasses.

I told her Debra Mitchell was expecting me, and she nodded. “Oh, yes, you are Mr. Goodwin, right? Ms. Mitchell said you were on your way up. Just go right through that door, then take a right. Her office is the third one on the left.”