the roof.”
“Any strangers seen coming in or out of the building about that time?”
“Not that we know of. Nobody is at the desk in the lobby after 10 P.M. and the place has automatic elevators so that anybody could go up or down as they willed. There is the record of somebody in the building passing a woman in the lower hall who carried a paper bag full of tinkling glassware, presumably liquor—but we doubt that it had anything to do with McFarley, since he had a plentiful stock. The boys in one of our traffic-control cars report that they saw a man and a boy walking a dog along Cheshire Boulevard about that time; the man and boy might have seen something or noticed somebody but we haven’t been able to locate them as yet. Out in the Village almost everybody has a dog. But most certainly, as I told you, any human-fly stuff, or the use of a ladder or rope outside that open window, would have been noticed and reported. No, Howie. It all comes back to the fact that McFarley died alone inside a locked and bolted room, with the gun beside him. You can’t get around that.”
Rook held up his hand. “I can show you clippings mentioning at least three different ways to fasten an inside bolt from the outside, though I admit that most of them require time and considerable mechanical ingenuity; they also leave noticeable pin-pricks on the wood of the door. Which your efficient young men would have noticed.”
“There weren’t any,” said Parkman.
“Well, are there any other tangible clues that we can guess about?”
Parkman nodded, and opened his desk drawer. “There’s the gun, fired once. No obvious prints; there rarely are on a gun with a pebbled grip. Then there was this in his wallet, along with some eighty dollars in currency.” The Chief showed a paper napkin printed with a comic penguin and the name Polar Club, and bearing the perfect imprint of a woman’s mouth in bright geranium. “And last but not least, there was this on the floor near the door.” He took out an envelope and carefully dumped a thimbleful of something mottled and brownish onto a sheet of paper. “Recognize it, Howie?”
Rook’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t know exactly. But I think I’ve smelled that particular smell somewhere, sometime. It must have been years ago, though.”
“We know what it is. It’s elephant dung mixed with sawdust.”
“Elephant dung!” gasped Howie Rook. “But—” He broke off suddenly as the door burst open and the woman he now knew to be Mavis McFarley plunged into the room; her lovely eyes wide and her rather remarkable bosoms heaving.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Parkman,” she cried breathlessly. “But I simply can’t wait out there any longer. Surely you’ve had time enough to tell this gentleman all the details by now; you’ve had him in here for simply hours!”
“Come in, Mrs. McFarley,” the Chief rather unnecessarily told her, and then he introduced them. Rook felt the solid impact of her personality: her gloved hand had a grip almost as strong as his own; her carefully painted lips were tight. Never averse to meeting beautiful women, he said, “Delighted, I’m sure.”
There were no further amenities. The woman had in her eyes the look of a gambler, and like a gambler she plunged. “Now that Mr. Parkman has told you everything, and shown you the evidence and the stuff, you’ve decided to help? Oh, I knew you would!”
“Well—” began Howie Rook, feeling rather like a bird being charmed by a snake, and enjoying it too.
“Because somebody has to do it. And the police say they haven’t any men to spare. Besides, policemen do so look like policemen, and think like policemen, don’t they?”
“If at all,” murmured Rook, with a side glance at the Chief.
“I’d do it myself in a minute. Only it’s impossible for a woman, you can see that. There may be some danger, but you look as if you could take care of yourself. I’ll pay almost anything—within reason of
“Any strangers seen coming in or out of the building about that time?”
“Not that we know of. Nobody is at the desk in the lobby after 10 P.M. and the place has automatic elevators so that anybody could go up or down as they willed. There is the record of somebody in the building passing a woman in the lower hall who carried a paper bag full of tinkling glassware, presumably liquor—but we doubt that it had anything to do with McFarley, since he had a plentiful stock. The boys in one of our traffic-control cars report that they saw a man and a boy walking a dog along Cheshire Boulevard about that time; the man and boy might have seen something or noticed somebody but we haven’t been able to locate them as yet. Out in the Village almost everybody has a dog. But most certainly, as I told you, any human-fly stuff, or the use of a ladder or rope outside that open window, would have been noticed and reported. No, Howie. It all comes back to the fact that McFarley died alone inside a locked and bolted room, with the gun beside him. You can’t get around that.”
Rook held up his hand. “I can show you clippings mentioning at least three different ways to fasten an inside bolt from the outside, though I admit that most of them require time and considerable mechanical ingenuity; they also leave noticeable pin-pricks on the wood of the door. Which your efficient young men would have noticed.”
“There weren’t any,” said Parkman.
“Well, are there any other tangible clues that we can guess about?”
Parkman nodded, and opened his desk drawer. “There’s the gun, fired once. No obvious prints; there rarely are on a gun with a pebbled grip. Then there was this in his wallet, along with some eighty dollars in currency.” The Chief showed a paper napkin printed with a comic penguin and the name Polar Club, and bearing the perfect imprint of a woman’s mouth in bright geranium. “And last but not least, there was this on the floor near the door.” He took out an envelope and carefully dumped a thimbleful of something mottled and brownish onto a sheet of paper. “Recognize it, Howie?”
Rook’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t know exactly. But I think I’ve smelled that particular smell somewhere, sometime. It must have been years ago, though.”
“We know what it is. It’s elephant dung mixed with sawdust.”
“Elephant dung!” gasped Howie Rook. “But—” He broke off suddenly as the door burst open and the woman he now knew to be Mavis McFarley plunged into the room; her lovely eyes wide and her rather remarkable bosoms heaving.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Parkman,” she cried breathlessly. “But I simply can’t wait out there any longer. Surely you’ve had time enough to tell this gentleman all the details by now; you’ve had him in here for simply hours!”
“Come in, Mrs. McFarley,” the Chief rather unnecessarily told her, and then he introduced them. Rook felt the solid impact of her personality: her gloved hand had a grip almost as strong as his own; her carefully painted lips were tight. Never averse to meeting beautiful women, he said, “Delighted, I’m sure.”
There were no further amenities. The woman had in her eyes the look of a gambler, and like a gambler she plunged. “Now that Mr. Parkman has told you everything, and shown you the evidence and the stuff, you’ve decided to help? Oh, I knew you would!”
“Well—” began Howie Rook, feeling rather like a bird being charmed by a snake, and enjoying it too.
“Because somebody has to do it. And the police say they haven’t any men to spare. Besides, policemen do so look like policemen, and think like policemen, don’t they?”
“If at all,” murmured Rook, with a side glance at the Chief.
“I’d do it myself in a minute. Only it’s impossible for a woman, you can see that. There may be some danger, but you look as if you could take care of yourself. I’ll pay almost anything—within reason of
Similar Books
The Legacy of Gird
Elizabeth Moon
No More Dead Dogs
Gordon Korman
Claiming Her Innocence
Ava Sinclair
Warrior
Zoe Archer
Find My Baby
Mitzi Pool Bridges
Love, Chocolate, and Beer (Cactus Creek)
Violet Duke
ARC: Cracked
Eliza Crewe
Silent Witness
Diane Burke
Bea
Peggy Webb