Ed McBain - Like Love

“I’m not a cop,” the landlady said. “It’s not my job to suspect somebody who comes here to rent an apartment. He paid me a month in advance, and he didn’t holler about the increase over the last tenant, or the four dollars for the television aerial, so why should I suspect him? I don’t care if his name’s John Doe or John D. Rockefeller, so long as he pays the rent and doesn’t cause trouble.”

“But he’s caused a little trouble, hasn’t he?”

“You’re the ones caused the trouble,” the landlady said, “Coming here with your guns and shooting up the hallway. Do you know there was a little girl sitting on the steps while you were shooting? Do you know that?”

“The little girl was on the second floor, ma’am,” Carella said. “And besides, we didn’t expect shooting.”

“Then you don’t know cops the way I do. The minute a cop arrives, there’s shooting.”

“We’d like to go through Mr. Doe’s apartment,” Carella said.

“Then you’d better go get yourself a search warrant.”

“Come on, lady, break your heart.”

Hawes said. “You don’t want us to go all the way downtown, do you?”

“I don’t care where you go. If you want to search that apartment, you need a warrant. That’s the law.”

“You know, of course, that your garbage cans are still outside on the sidewalk, don’t you?” Carella said.

“Huh?”

“Your garbage cans. They’re supposed to be taken in by noon. It’s one-thirty now.”

“I’ll take them in right away,” the landlady said. “The damn trucks didn’t get here until noon.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Carella said, “but taking them in now won’t change the nature of the misdemeanor. There’s a stiff fine involved, you know.”

“What is this? A shakedown?”

“That’s exactly what it is, lady,” Hawes said. “You don’t really want us to go all the way downtown for a search warrant, do you?”

“Cops,” the landlady muttered, and she turned her back. “Go ahead, look through the apartment. Try not to steal anything while you’re up there.”

“We’ll try,” Carella said, “but it won’t be easy.”

They began climbing the steps to the fourth floor. The same little girl was sitting on the second floor landing, still adjusting her skates with the skate key.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” Carella answered.

“Are you coming to my house?”

“Apartment twenty-one?” Carella asked.

“That’s right.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“I thought you was the insurance,” the little girl said, and went back to work on the skate.

The door to apartment 44 was open when they reached the fourth floor landing. Carella’s kick had sprung the lock and the door stood ajar, knifing a wedge of sunlight into the otherwise dark hallway. They walked to the door and casually shoved it open.

A young woman turned swiftly from the dresser where she was going through the drawers. She was perhaps eighteen years old, her hair in curlers, wearing neither make-up nor lipstick, a faded pink robe thrown over her pajamas.

“Well, hello,” Carella said.

The girl pulled a face, as if she were four years old and had been caught doing some-thing that was strictly forbidden by her parents.

“You’re cops, huh?” she said.

“That’s right,” Hawes answered. “What are you doing here, miss?”

“Looking around, that’s all.”

“Just browsing, huh?” Carella said.

“Well, sort of, yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Cynthia.”

“Cynthia what?”

“I didn’t take anything, mister,” Cynthia said. “I just came in to look around, that’s all. I live right down the hall. You can ask anybody.”

“What do you want us to ask them?”

“If I don’t live right down the hall.”

Cynthia shrugged. Her face was getting more and more discouraged, crumbling slowly, the way a very little girl’s face will steadily dissolve under the questioning of adults.

“What’s your last name, Cynthia?”

“Reilly,” she said.

“What are you doing in here, Cynthia?”

Cynthia shrugged.

“Stealing?”

“No!” she said. “Hey, no! No, I swear to God.”

“Then what?”

“Just looking around.”

“Do you know the man who lives in this apartment?”

“No. I only saw him in the hall once or twice.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.” Cynthia paused. “I’m sick,” she said. “I’ve got a bad cold. That’s why I’m in my bathrobe. I couldn’t go to work because I had a fever of a hundred and one point six.”

“So you decided to take a little walk, is that it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Cynthia said. She smiled because she thought at last the detectives were beginning to understand what she was doing in this apartment, but the detectives didn’t smile back, and her face returned to its slow crumbling, as if she were ready to burst into tears at any moment.

“And you walked right in here, huh?”

“Only because I was curious.”

“About what?”

“The shooting.” She shrugged. “Are you going to arrest me? I didn’t take anything. I’ll die if you take me to prison.” She paused and then blurted, “I’ve got a fever.”

“Then you better get back to bed,” Carella said.

“You’re letting me go?”

“Go on, get out of here.”

“Thanks,” Cynthia said quickly, and then vanished before they had a chance to change their minds.

Carella sighed. “You want to take this room? I’ll get the other.”

“Okay,” Hawes said. Carella went into the other room. Hawes began looking through the dresser Cynthia had already inspected. He was working on the second drawer when he heard the sound of roller skates in the hallway outside. He looked up as the little girl from the second floor landing skated into the room.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” Hawes answered.

“Did you just move in?”

“No.”

“Are you going someplace?”

“No.”

“Then why are you taking all your clothes out of the bureau?”

“They’re not my clothes,” Hawes said.

“Then you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“I guess not.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I’m trying to find something.”

“What are you trying to find?”

“I’m trying to find the name of the man who lives in this apartment.”

“Oh,” the little girl said. She skated to the other side of the room, skated back, and then asked, “Is his name in the bureau?”

“Not so far,” Hawes said.

“Do you think his name is in the bureau?”

“It might be. Here, do you see this?”

“It’s a shirt,” the little girl said.

“That’s right, but I mean here, inside the collar.”

“Those are numbers,” the little girl said. “I can count to a hundred by tens, would you like to hear me?”

“Not right now,” Hawes said. “Those numbers are a laundry mark,” Hawes said. “We may be able to get the man’s name by checking them out.”

“Gee,” the girl said and then immediately said, “Ten, twenty, thirty, fifty…”

“Forty,” Hawes corrected.

“… forty , fifty, sixty, thirty…”

“Seventy.”

“I better start all over again. Ten, twenty…” She stopped and studied Hawes carefully for a moment. Then she said, “You don’t live here, do you?”

“No.”

“I thought you did at first. I thought maybe you just moved in or something.”

“No.”

“I thought maybe Petie had moved out.”

“No,” Hawes said. He put a pile of shirts onto the dresser and then reached into his back pocket for a tag.