Free The Gutter and the Grave by Ed McBain Page A

misinformation would be Johnny Bridges whom I was trying to help. If Johnny hadn’t hired Knowles, he had no reason for wanting to injure a perfect stranger. And if he had, he certainly wouldn’t want to foul up a client who still owed him money.
    There was a faint breeze in the garden. The breeze found the open throat of my shirt, lingered there like a warm caress. I sipped at my coffee, and I kept my mind away from other times in this same garden, but it was impossible to shut out the thoughts, impossible to squelch the picture of Toni that managed to sneak in wherever I went, whatever I did.
    I put down the coffee cup.
    I got off the bench and walked back into the museum. I didn’t much feel like working right then, but I also didn’t feel like being puzzled. Knowles had said a girl named Fran West worked on the case. If he’d been lying to me, she’d know it. Provided she was willing to talk about it. Provided Dennis hadn’t already reached her and filled her in on the lie. Provided she was listed in the phone book. Provided she was home.
    I found a listing for Francine West on West 10th Street in the Village. I waited while a fat woman in the phone booth spoke to a Mr. Arbiter about the Roualt print she’d bought and would it go in the living room over the chartreuse sofa?
    “But it has a
lot
of colors,” she insisted, in answer to something he said. “Well, of course there’s some chartreuse in it. Would I have bought it if there weren’t any chartreuse in it?”
    I waited.
    Eventually, the woman and Mr. Arbiter both seemed satisfied. She came out of the booth, smiled and said, “My God, it’s hot, isn’t it?”
    I nodded. The smell of her perfume was still in the booth. I left the door open, deposited a dime and dialed Fran West’s number. A phone call can often save a very long journey. I let the phone ring four times. It was answered just as the fifth ring started.
    “Yes?” the woman said.
    “Miss West?”
    “Yes?”
    I hung up and headed west.

Chapter Six
    I like Greenwich Village.
    It’s close to home, home being the Bowery, and maybe that’s why I feel comfortable there. It’s got a large quota of phonies, but it’s also got some of the liveliest and most devoted people in the city. And if you cut your way through the deviates and the fakes starving in attics because they want to pretend they’re artists, you’ll find people of talent and grace, and there’s little enough of that in the world today. You’ll also find a lot of ordinary working stiffs who commute to jobs in midtown Manhattan every day and who live in the Village because they like this feeling of a small town within a big town. The Village is gaudy sometimes, and sometimes it’s violent, and sometimes the things you see there can make you want to vomit. But most of the time it’s just a place where people live, and most people are all right.
    Fran West’s street was quiet and hot. The building in which she lived had air-conditioners sticking out of one window on each floor, and I thanked God and hoped hers would be working. An old man was sweeping the front steps when I came up. He steppedinto my path and rested one hand on the broom as if he were handling a rifle.
    “Who you looking for?” he said.
    “Francine West,” I told him.
    “Third floor,” he said. “You a friend of hers?”
    “Business associate.”
    “I own this building,” the old man said. “I don’t go for shenanigans. You got business with Miss West, you get it done fast and come down fast. Else, I’ll be up.”
    “You had me fooled for a minute,” I said.
    “Huh?”
    “You shaved off the mustache, didn’t you?”
    “Huh?”
    “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re still alive.”
    “Huh?”
    “Or where you’re hiding, Adolph.”
    I left him on the front step scratching his head. I pressed the buzzer for Francine West, apartment 3C, and then opened the inner door when she answered my ring. The lobby of the building had