Free The Gutter and the Grave by Ed McBain Page B

been knocked down and done over with a huge glass panel facing the street. But inside the entrance doorway, the original wooden bannister swooped upward with the original rickety steps. I took the steps leisurely. On the third floor, I looked for 3C, found it, and pressed my thumb to the ivory stud set in the door jamb.
    From behind the door, a voice said, “Who is it?”
    “Matt Cordell,” I answered.
    There was a pause. “I don’t know you.”
    “Dennis Knowles sent me.”
    “How do I know?”
    “You don’t. Open the door and take a chance. Daylight rapes are very uncommon.”
    Behind the door, Fran West stifled a laugh. I heard the bolt being thrown, and then the door opened a crack, held by the night chain. In the crack, Fran West said, “What do you want, Mr.…”
    “Cordell. I want to talk to you about Dom Archese.”
    “What about him?”
    “Won’t it be easier inside?”
    “It’s pretty easy the way it is,” Fran said.
    “Your neighbors might overhear us. This is pretty confidential.”
    “I’ve only got one neighbor and he leaves for work at six-thirty in the morning.”
    “Dennis won’t like the way you’re treating a new member of the firm,” I said.
    “Are you working for Dennis?”
    “Yes.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since this morning.”
    “Then you won’t mind if I call him to check, will you?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Your name is Cordell?”
    “Matt Cordell, that’s right. If you’re going to call him, please hurry, will you? I don’t like standing in hallways.”
    Fran thought about it for a moment. Then she said, “You sound okay,” and she took the chain off the door. It was thirty degrees cooler inside. I felt the chill instantly and almost shuddered. Fran didn’t seem to mind the cold. She was wearing a black sweater and black slacks, tapered to hug her ankles. She wore black slippers, and her hair was as black as her costume, blacker, the richest blackest hair I’d ever seen on a woman. Her eyes were brown, and she wore no makeup, no powder, no lipstick, so that the wide brown eyes became the focal point of what was essentially a plain face.
    “Come on in the living room,” she said, and I followed her into a room with a fireplace on one wall and yellow nylon drapes on another. Dramatically, she went to stand by the draped wall instantly, a black shadow against the bright lemon yellow. “Sit down.”
    “Thank you.” I sat. A cigarette box was on the table, so I lifted the lid and had one.
    “What about Archese?” she said.
    “He’s dead.”
    “Killed or dropped?”
    “He was shot.”
    “That’s nice,” Fran said. She walked to the table and speared a cigarette for herself. Gallantly, I lighted it. She blew smoke at me and asked, “When did this happen?”
    “Yesterday afternoon.”
    “I guess I should have the morning papers delivered,”she said. “I’m a late sleeper. By the time I get the news, it happened four days ago. How’d you get into this?”
    “Dennis hired me. I used to work with him a long time ago,” I lied.
    “What’s the matter? Didn’t he like the job I was doing?”
    “He liked it fine. But murder complicates it a little. He feels a man ought to be around now.”
    “Why?” she said, and it was a damn good question because I know of very few private investigators who will mess around with murder. The minute a homicide intrudes into a case, the private eye will pick up his fee and steal into the desert night.
    “Johnny Bridges is involved,” I said. “He’s still the agency’s client until he notifies us otherwise. We may be able to save him a lot of trouble if we can establish where he was, what he was doing…”
    “Cut the gobbledegook,” Fran said, “and tell me why Dennis thought he had to bring in somebody else on this.”
    “He’s worried about you,” I said in a final stab.
    “Ha!”
    “He is. With a murderer running around, who can tell?” I shrugged in what I hoped was a realistically concerned