didnât. I told the cops.â
âHow about a man about forty-three, short but broad?â and I described John Andera in full.
âNever saw one like that.â
âAny women?â
âNah.â No fun in peeping on women with women.
âYou heard nothing the night she died?â
âI told the cops. Not a thing.â
âAnd you hear everything, donât you?â I said.
He slammed the door in my face, but I felt better as I went out into the now dark evening, and headed for the subway. Iâd let him know what I thought of him. I was imagining him back in his room cursing me when I turned north on Lexington Avenue and saw the man behind me.
It was dark, and there were a lot of people on the sidewalk. I couldnât get a good look at him, but I was sure he was tailing me. I didnât recognize his clothes: dark, almost black, with a cheap-looking topcoat, and a hat pulled low. To be sure, I turned off the avenue and walked toward the Park. He came behind me, dropping back on the side street where there were fewer people. I did a few sharp turns. He was still on my trail when I turned back toward Lexington. I reached the avenue, and ducked into a doorway around the corner.
He didnât appear. I watched the corner, but no one like: him came around after me. I waited five minutes, then took the subway downtown.
Maybe Iâd been wrong.
The Emerald Room had just opened when I walked in. Behind its anonymous façade it was a beautiful place of small rooms with deep leather booths, stiff white tables, decent light to see your food by, a real fire against the October chill, and a small, quiet bar. The maître took one look at my old duffel coat, and came fast.
âYes, sir?â
âIâd like to talk to the manager.â
âAbout what?â He was half-curt, and half-relieved. I was a nobody, but at least I wasnât asking for a table.
âA former employee.â
âI handle the personnel. What former employee?â
âFrancesca Crawford,â I said. âOr Fran Martin, I guess.â
He froze solid. âThe police have asked all, and been told all we know.â
âWas there any trouble with her? How about men?â
âShe was a quiet, efficient girl. We liked her. Now do I have to call the bouncer?â
His eyes flickered to my left where I saw a muscular middleweight in a loose suit watching us both. I left.
I stopped in a diner on Eighth Avenue near my office for my dinner. If you know an area of New York, you can learn the specialty of each diner, and can eat pretty well for little money by picking the right diner on the right day. Here, on Wednesdays, it was kidney stew, and I thought about Francesca Crawford while I ate. Gazzo was right, there wasnât much to go on. Three weeks is a short time, and thatâs all sheâd had in New York as far as I knew. The roommate, Celia Bazer, might know more, but meanwhile I wanted to look a little farther back.
I saw no sign of anyone following me to the branch library. The library is a detective tool most people forget. It would tell me more about Mayor Martin J. Crawford. I got Whoâs Who in America. The entry wasnât long, Dresden was only a small industrial city:
Crawford, Martin James: Mayor, Dresden, N.Y. Born Dresden, N.Y., April 14, 1920. Ed. private schools, Cornell Univ., Cornell Law. M. Katje Van Hoek; four children. New York State Bar, 1945. Lawyer, Dresden City Council, 1948-50. Elec. New York State Assembly, 1950-56. New York State Atty Genâs Office, 1957-62. Estab. law firm Vance, Crawford and Cashin, 1962. Elec. mayor of Dresden, N.Y., 1964. Dresden Plan (strict Welfare control), 1966. Dresden Crime Comm. estab. 1968, under dir. of Carter Vance and Anthony Sasser, with mayor as chmn. Re-elected 1968. Dresden Plan for welfare control opposed in various court actions, abandoned, 1969.
I closed the book, and thought about Mayor Martin