Free Bread (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain Page A

that trouble.”
    The girl, holding the door against his foot with all her strength, said, “I told you Charlie ain’t here. I don’t know where he’s at.”
    “Let’s talk about it,” Hawes said.
    “Nothing to talk about.”
    “Back away from that door before I knock you on your ass,” Hawes said.
    “I know my rights.”
    “You can tell me all about them at the station house, when I claim you tried to slash my face with a razor blade.”
    “What razor blade? Man, that’s pure shit, and you know it.”
    “The razor blade I keep right here in my jacket pocket, just for situations like this one. You want to open that door, or do I kick it in and bring assault charges?”
    “Man, you’re really something,” the girl said, and opened the door wide. “Okay,” she said, “let’s see it.”
    “The razor blade?”
    “The badge, man, the badge.”
    Hawes opened his wallet. She studied his shield and his ID card, and then turned her back, walked into the apartment, and went directly to the sink, where she opened the faucet and letthe water run. Hawes followed her inside, closing and locking the door behind him. The kitchen was small and badly in need of a paint job, but bright with sunshine that streamed through the open window. A cheesebox with geraniums in it sat on the fire escape outside. The refrigerator had been painted a pastel blue, and was in one corner of the room alongside an ancient gas stove. The sink and hanging cabinets were on the wall obliquely opposite the window. A wooden table and two chairs were against the other wall. A telephone rested on top of an Isola directory on the table.
    “Does Charlie Harrod live here?” he asked.
    “He lives here.”
    “Who’re you?”
    “A friend.”
    “What kind of friend?”
    “A girl kind of friend.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Elizabeth.”
    “Elizabeth what?”
    “Benjamin. You really got a blade in your coat?”
    “Sure.”
    “Let me see it.”
    Hawes reached into his jacket pocket and removed from it a single-edged razor blade with a thin protective cardboard shield over the cutting edge. He did not tell Elizabeth that the blade was a working tool rather than a weapon; in the course of an investigation, he frequently had to open cartons or cut twine or slit the clothing of a bleeding victim.
    “You’re really something else,” Elizabeth said, and shook her head.
    “Is that water running for a reason?” Hawes asked.
    “Yeah, I’m thirsty, that’s the reason,” Elizabeth said. She took a glass from the drain board on the sink, filled it to the brim, and began drinking. But she did not turn off the faucet.
    “Why don’t we go in the other room?” Hawes said.
    “What for?”
    “More comfortable in there.”
    “I’m comfortable right here. You don’t like the accommodations, you’re free to leave.”
    “Let’s talk about Charlie Harrod.”
    “I told you before, there’s nothing to talk about.”
    “Where does he work?”
    “Haven’t the faintest.”
    “ Does he work?”
    “I suppose so. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
    “Where can I find him?”
    “Haven’t the faintest.”
    “You mind if I turn off that water? I’m having trouble hearing you.”
    “If I don’t let it run, it won’t be cold,” Elizabeth said. “Anyway, it’s quiet water, we can hear each other fine.”
    “Who else can hear us, Elizabeth?”
    The question startled her. He had suspected the apartment was bugged from the moment she refused to turn off the tap or go into the other room. She had not moved from her position near the sink, which could mean that the bug was somewhere in the wall cabinet, probably under the wooden trim, and the sound of running water would overwhelm the sensitive mike and obliterate any other sound in the room. But if the apartment was bugged, who was bugging it? And if she knew the location of the bug, why hadn’t she simply ripped it out?
    “Ain’t nobody here but the two of us,” she said, regaining