Hannah Bronto - Lovers in paradise

"The landlord of the apartment building," she explained. "A man by the name of Hammer. Archie Hammer. I haven't spoken to him yet because he's been out of town on business. But before he left he mentioned to some of the people in the building that there had been a visitor to Miss Spade's apartment. A male visitor."

"Have you tried to trace this man down?" the Commissioner asked. "This landlord fellow."

"He'll be back sometime this evening. With any luck this case will be wrapped up by morning."

"You will, of course, speak to him the moment he gets in tonight."

Jocelyn frowned and rubbed her forehead. "Would it be possible for Mal to handle that?" she asked. "I'm not feeling all that well. Besides, it should be a matter of routine from here on in."

"Of course he will," Commissioner Moran assured.

Then they both looked at me.

"Of course I will," I answered evenly. Underneath, however, it was another matter. The bitter realization welled up inside me that if this did work out, then Jocelyn essentially would have solved the case. Already our positions had somehow reversed themselves. Just as she had planned it, her "illness" not withstanding. Jocelyn was on her way home, while I, almost like her junior partner, was reduced to running down leads late into the night.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Mal Investigates A Clue

It was dark by the time I got to west Thirty-fifth Street. Located in one of the oldest sections of Bos-Wash, in an area once called Manhattan, the neighborhood was quite run down. During daylight hours the section must have seemed quaint with its small and impractical brownstones, the largest of which would barely contain ten or twelve modules, even when utilized to capacity. At night there was something positively sinister about it. The square old-fashioned doorways were swallowed in inky pools of shadow, and the long narrow windows which lined the face of the buildings reminded me of blank, dead-staring eyes.

I left my tube car sitting at the side of the walk path – here they were called sidewalks – and I climbed the old stone stairway which led up to the front door. The door itself was a novelty, made out of wood and real glass so that you could look into a small hallway beyond. There was another door at the end of the hallway, this one made from heavy-duty plasteel, the building's one concession to security.

All the buildings in this area of the city remained exactly as they originally had been built. Except where absolutely necessary, no improvements were ever made on the buildings, and every replaced part first had to be approved, and then refitted exactly to ancient specifications. Almost a century ago a wave of nostalgia had swept over the City Council, and these buildings had been salvaged as landmarks representative of Bos-Wash's long and glorious past. Since then, however, very little had been done with or to the buildings, and they were left to deteriorate. Perhaps after another century had gone by the buildings would be remembered again the next time the cry for their demolition was raised against them.

In the meantime, they were eyesores: small, dirty, over-crowded, and incredibly neglected. Because they were landmarks, and therefore were without any of our society's technological advancements, only the fringe members of our culture lived in them: the artists, the malcontents, the criminal elements – people who were content to look backward toward a simpler and, in their opinion, better life style.

I peered in through the dirty glass of the door. The hallway was lit by a small round globe attached to the ceiling, and the light it cast out was sagging and muted. I pushed open the door, it protested squeakily, and I stepped into the hallway. It reeked of urine. I tried the plasteel door, but it wouldn't budge.

I stepped back. "Police. Open up."

The door didn't move. I repeated the command. Again nothing happened.

"Humm…" I said aloud. Strange. It doesn't work by voice control. And there doesn't seem to be any place to insert a voice card. I wonder how the hell it opens?

I looked around the hallway. It was finished in large porcelain rectangles, now cracked and filthy with age, going up the walls to a certain point, and then the rest of the wall was bare. It was painted a dingy green up and across the peeling ceiling. On the opposite wall was a flat metal square, divided into six evenly-spaced metal rectangles placed one against each other. There was a slot at the bottom of each, and in one or two were slips of paper on which names were written. Each rectangle also contained a little round black button.

A directory? I wondered. I pushed one of the buttons. "Hello?" I called out, looking for a speaker in which to talk.

Something buzzed behind me, and I whirled. No one was there. It was the door that seemed to be buzzing. After a moment it stopped. Nothing happened.

"I wonder…?"

I pushed another bell. Nothing at all happened. I pushed the first one again. The plasteel door buzzed. I jumped at it and twisted the handle – it turned! – and I stepped inside.

"What the fuck ya playin' with the bells for?" someone out of sight screamed.

There was a long narrow corridor, and against one side of it a steeply sloping wooden stairway. The voice seemed to be coming from there.

"Police," I said, looking up.

All the way up above, looking out over the railing of a banister, was a face. "What the fuck do you want?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Archie Hammer. Which is his module?"

"He's in the basement." The face began to withdraw.

"Wait!" I cried. "What did you say?"

"The basement… the basement!"

"What's a base-ment?" I asked.

"Jesus Christ!" the face exploded. "Downstairs, under the ground, for Christ's sake!"

Why would anyone want to live under the ground? I wondered. I said: "How do I get down there?"

"Out the door, down the stairs, turn sharp left, and go back under the stairs. You'll see a door there. That's his apartment."

I followed the instructions, and found myself facing a warped, gritty-looking solid wooden door painted jet black. I looked around for a buzzer or a bell to ring, but there was none. I didn't know what to do, so I banged on the door with my curled fist, reasoning it to be a reasonable way of attracting the attention of anyone inside.

The only response I received was a loud barking sound, followed closely by growling and yapping. Apparently Hammer kept an animal. I wondered what kind it might be. Probably a dog. I saw a dog once in the zoo.

I continued to hammer the door, and the dog continued to bark at me. No one else came to it so I shrugged and assumed I was too early. Mr. Hammer had not retained yet. I left my card in the door.

I walked back to my car and got in. I punched out my authorization, and put the car on auto drive, snoozing my way across town. When I got to my apartment, I undressed, fixed myself a drink, and while I sipped it, took a shower. I was standing under the blowers, luxuriating under the soft fingers of warm air caressing my body, when my wall screen hummed to live.

Shit. I wrapped a towel around my middle and walked into the living room, feeling the air around me rising in temperature in compensation for my nakedness. "Yes?" I said.

Like an eye opening, my wall screen expanded in a pool of light, depth and color. A grubby-looking man with a broken nose glared at me.

"You Browne?" he demanded.

"I am, sir. You must be…"

"Hammer," he said. He put a cigarette between his thick lips, struck a multi-match with his thumbnail, and lit the cigarette. It wasn't a vita-cig either, judging from the faint smell wafting through the sensors. He exhaled at the screen. "Archie Hammer. What's this all about, pal?"

"Are you at home, Mr. Hammer?"

"Near to it. I ain't got a wall screen. Don't believe in 'em. I'm at a – shall we say, friend's house."