Free The Anderson Tapes by Lawrence Sanders

perfectly safe.
    On June fourth, at nine forty-five in the morning, I met the truck at the corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue. There were two men who introduced themselves to me merely as Ed and Billy. I had never seen them before. They were clad in uniforms of New York Telephone Company repairmen. We spoke very little. The actual driver, the man named Ed, seemed reasonably intelligent and alert. The other one, called Billy, was large and muscular but had a childish mentality. I believe he was mentally retarded.
    We drove directly to the house on East Seventy-third Street, pulling up in front. As we had agreed, I alighted, walked into the lobby, and presented my credentials to the doorman. He inspected my identification card, glanced out to the curb where the truck was parked, and told me to pull into the alley that runs alongside the building. Do one of you gentlemen have a cigarette?
    I would appreciate it. Thank you very much.
    [Lapse of four seconds.]
    So … I was identified on the closed-circuit TV screen in the lobby, and the doorman pressed the button unlocking the service door and allowed me entrance into the basement. Pardon?
    No, this was merely to be an inspection. There was no intent to steal or destroy. Anderson merely wanted a complete rundown of the basement plus Polaroid photos of anything interesting. You understand? If I thought there was anything illegal required, I never would have accepted this job.
    So. I am now in the basement. I went first to the telephone box.
    Quite ordinary. I made notes of main phones and extensions. I took instant photos of the entrance of the main trunk line into the basement and where it should be cut to isolate the entire house.
    This was requested by Anderson, you understand. I also ascertained that there were two separate wiring systems which, by their arrangement, I judged to be alarm systems, one to the local precinct house, perhaps triggered by an ultrasonic or radio-wave alarm, and the other to a private security agency which would be, I guessed, activated by opened doors or windows.
    Quite unexpectedly, both systems bore small tags with the apartment numbers written on them, so I was able to note that the precinct alarm was attached to Apartment Five B, and the private agency alarm to Apartment Four B. I made notes of this, plus photos. As Anderson had requested.
    At this moment a door opened into the basement and a man came in. I learned he was Ivan Block, the superintendent of the building.
    He asked me what I was doing, and I explained that the telephone company was intending to bring a new line down the street and I was examining the premises to see what new equipment would be required. This was the same explanation I had given to the doorman. Another glass of water, please? I thank you.
    [Lapse of six seconds.]
    Block appeared satisfied with my explanation. Listening to him speak, I realized he was Hungarian or perhaps a Czech. Since I speak neither of these languages, I spoke to him in German, to which he replied in very bad, heavily accented German. However, he was pleased to speak the language. I believe he was somewhat inebriated. He insisted I come into his apartment for a glass of wine. I followed him, happy at the opportunity of making a further examination.
    The super’s small apartment was dirty and depressing. However, I took a glass of wine with him while looking around. The only thing of value I saw was an antique triptych on his dresser. I guessed it as being at least three hundred years old, beautifully carved. The value, I estimated, might be as much as two thousand dollars. I made no reference to it.
    Block continued to drink wine, and I told him I had to call my office, and I left. I then explored the main basement. The only thing of interest I found was quite odd… .
    It appeared to be a kind of a box—or rather, a small room—built into one corner of the basement. It was obviously quite old, and I judged it had been built into