Том Годвин: Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

“Of course I let no one in. Why would I do that in the middle of the night?”

“Could someone have gotten in, without you knowing it?” Gerber asked. “Perhaps you were on another floor and didn’t hear.”

“Or maybe...” Corey started to say and hesitated. He was thinking that the man, alone during the long night hours, might do some drowsing.

“Nobody could get in,” Lawrence said positively. “Anyone trying to force one of those doors would make a lot of noise. And besides — you probably checked it yourself — there’s no sign that one of the doors was forced, is there?”

Corey shook his head. At the same moment he had detected the impatient look on Charlene’s face. He was aware of the question she could barely suppress. “That’s exactly the point,” he told Lawrence. “Nobody broke in. Yet, we know that some people were in the store.” He gestured toward Charlene. “We’re certain she was there — we found her handbag in the store.” He watched Lawrence intently. “Are you still saying you didn’t open the door for someone?”

Lawrence reddened and stared in confusion. “I’m telling you I didn’t,” he said, his voice rising. “What kind of proof is that? Why couldn’t she have been in the store during the day — and left her handbag at that time?”

“But I wasn’t in the store,” said Charlene. “I spent all day at the office building, even eating lunch there.”

Further questions led only to repeated statements by Lawrence that he had admitted no one to the store. As they drove away, Corey remained silent, apparently meditating over the watchman’s account. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me what you think?” Charlene demanded.

Corey smiled. “I think he was lying.” He looked at Gerber who nodded in agreement and said, “That brings up the next question.”

“Yes.” Corey rubbed his forehead. “Why? What is he hiding? Obviously, someone was admitted to the store; that means that Lawrence, the only one inside opened the door.”

When they dropped Charlene off at her apartment, she asked “What will you do now?”

“Well, we have some leads to follow,” said Corey.

Charlene laughed. “You’re not going to tell me. All right, but remember, I’m involved.”

Corey grinned back. “We’ll be in touch — if there’s anything important.”

At the station later, the two men sat discussing the matter. To Charlene, Corey had not explained why an investigation had been launched. Her report of the man on the piano bench was too incredible to get beyond the sergeant’s desk. After all, an officer had accompanied Charlene back to the store and discovered nothing more than the familiar window display. The incident might have been forgotten, except for something more tangible and significant: in the morning an exasperated policeman had found a car parked in a forbidden zone on a downtown street. The flashy foreign car, jutting out into the street, seemed almost to have been abandoned. The door on the driver’s side was half-open.

A check of the license number produced a man’s name, one that made the desk sergeant straighten up. He telephoned and learned from the landlady of an apartment building that the man hadn’t returned home the night before. At that point the sergeant, remembering the girl’s story, called the detective division. Corey and Gerber checked at the store and talked to a salesgirl who told of coming on duty at 9:30 to find a handbag on the floor near the window. Corey had considered all incidents and decided that they formed a pattern. Something odd, perhaps serious, had occurred in or near the store.

It was this pattern that he and Gerber were discussing. Corey sighed and reached for his jacket. “You know where we’re going.”

“Sure,” Gerber replied. “Back to the store.”

At Leland’s they stood behind the crowd that watched the window. People, gaping at the woman on the piano bench, murmured and pointed as the arm rose to plunge down with the knife. “Nothing like a quiet musical evening at home,” said Gerber.

An elderly woman glared at them. “Disgusting. The police should stop it.”

Inside, while they examined the carpeting behind the window, a man named Raymond hurried up. Obviously agitated, he introduced himself as the window dresser. “I set up that display,” he said, waving a hand. “Is there something wrong? I’ve heard some — uh-rumors.”

“We don’t know,” said Corey. “The display — does it appear the same, no changes?”

“Changes?” Raymond’s voice lifted in shrill surprise. “Nobody touches it except me.” He pulled the drapery back to gaze at the woman on the bench. “I don’t see anything different. Wait a minute. It seems to me that the woman is not exactly as I placed her. I have a good memory for details.” He bustled out, saying, “I must see this from the street.” When he returned, his agitation had increased and his eyes bulged with excitement. “The mannequin on the bench,” he said. “It’s not the one I posed there. I had chosen a black-haired one, you know, to be absolutely faithful to the story. Well, it’s unbelievable. This one has light brown hair and the clothes aren’t the same. She’s been brought from some department in the store. Who would dare to do this?” He clucked indignantly. “I’m going to see the manager, right away.”

“Hold it,” said Corey. He leaned inside the window to study the mannequin and then bent down to inspect the piano keys closely. “Don’t let anybody touch these keys,” he said. “They must be dusted for prints.” He nodded significantly at Gerber. “Come here and take a look.”

Gerber stared at the dark brown stains on the edges of several keys. He made a whistling sound.

“Blood,” said Corey. He was thinking of the girl. Her story had been too wild to swallow — like something out of an acid trip. Now, it seemed she had reported what had actually happened. He felt guilty. The girl deserved an apology.

Raymond shrank back from the window. “Blood. It’s horrible. What do you suppose...?”

Corey fixed him with a stern look. “You’re to say nothing. Is that clear?” Raymond’s head bobbed and Corey said, “Now I think I’ll see the manager, if you’ll take me to him.” He left Gerber behind to summon a lab man and an officer to stand guard.

The gold-lettered sign on the glass partition read Martin King, General Manager, and at a desk near the door a woman glanced up to appraise him. Her cool expression showed no change when he mentioned the word “police.”

“Perhaps I can help you,” she said with a faint smile. “I’m Ann Loret, Mr. King’s secretary.”

Unmistakable, Corey thought. Even on the street she’d be identified as the secretary to some top executive, She looked thirty but was probably closer to forty. When she stood up he noticed the trim suit with its subdued pattern. I’l bet everything here is organization and efficiency, he reflected.

“If you don’t mind,” he said “I’d like to see Mr. King.” He wondered if she’d frown, but her face remained blank as she pressed a buzzer and ushered him into the office. A stocky man, round-faced, extended a hand and then returned to drop into the chair behind the desk. He offered a picture of ease, body tilted back and hands clasped behind his head.

King motioned him to a chair. “A police lieutenant,” he said with a genial gaze. “I’m sure our usual shoplifting problems haven’t brought you here.”

Corey described the events of the night before and then explained what he wished to do. King, his relaxed attitude gone, straightened in his chair. He was plainly shocked. “You mean you actually expect to find...?”

Corey nodded. “We’ll do it quietly. Your customers won’t be disturbed.”