Read Online Shadow Dancers by Herbert Lieberman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Herbert Lieberman
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Mooney remarked sourly and started to hang up.
“And one more thing.” Mulvaney’s voice took an ominous drop. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”
The sudden transition from rage to that of almost collegial intimacy made Mooney uneasy. “About what?”
“Not on the phone. In my office. Tomorrow.”
A long, rather strained pause ensued. “Fine. I’ll see you in the morning,” Mooney snapped and hung up the phone. When he turned, Fritzi was there, staring hard at him.
“Looks like you lost your best friend.”
“Worse, even. I lost three hundred bucks.”
“I lost seven hundred,” she beamed. “You don’t see me down in the mouth.”
“That’s different. You’re rich.”
“If I am, sailor, so are you.” She gave the flesh above his waist a pinch. “What’re you eating tonight?”
“Crow.”
“Don’t have any. What about pot roast?”
“Pot roast,” Sanchez intoned sepulchrally from his perch. “Pot roast.”
SEVEN
“THIS IS IT.”
Slumped in the backseat of the squad car, Mooney looked up from his Daily News.
“Four-thirty West Fifty-seventh.”
“What’s the name of the guy again?”
Pickering extracted the small sheet of crumpled paper from his pocket, smoothing it out on his knee. “Crane, Poole Associates. Room fourteen oh three. It’s Crane we’re looking for.”
Mooney nodded.
“Mr. Avery Crane.”
Grumbling to himself, Mooney lumbered up out of the squad car. “Wait here for us, Lopez,” he called over his shoulder at the driver. “We’ll be down in twenty minutes.”
“And she just stopped coming in?”
“Not like that. Not all at once. She tried coming in for a short time after. She was pretty shaky, so we tried her on half days.”
“And?”
“It went okay for a while. But it just got to be too much for her. For one thing, the work suffered. Messed up contracts. Didn’t give messages. Didn’t return phone calls. Stuff like that. She was distracted. Finally we suggested she take a vacation. With pay,” Mr. Crane hastened to add. He was a natty, fastidious man. Manicured and barbered impeccably. A vision in gray sideburns and good British tailoring. About him was an air of expensive cologne and the sort of inflated self-importance that becomes quickly annoyed with any interruption of its normal routine.
They were standing in a stairwell on the thirtieth floor of 430 West 57th Street.
“This the only stairwell on the floor?” Mooney asked. “That’s right. That’s the way they built them in nineteen twelve. Nowadays the fire code insists on a fire exit as well.”
Mooney gave the doorknob several sharp twists. “And the door’s always kept locked on the stairwell side like this?”
“If it wasn’t, we’d have every creep on Fifty-seventh Street flitting around up here. As it is …” His voice trailed off and he glanced at the two policemen uneasily. “I guess I don’t have to tell you people.”
Mooney sensed in the small, dapper figure before him another solid citizen, eager to inform a member of the local constabulary how badly they were doing their job.
“That washroom she was going to at the time …” He doodled in his pad. “That’s the only one on this floor?”
“Only women’s room. There’s a men’s room too. There are just eight tenants on the floor. You can’t get into them without a key.”
“Then he must’ve come up on the elevator,” Pickering said, “since those stairwell doors are always locked.”
Crane nodded. “I’d say so. Must’ve been just getting off the elevator when she stepped out of the office on her way to the washroom.”
“And that’s when he grabbed her and pulled her in here?”
“That’s essentially it. At least, that’s the story she told the police afterward.”
“He must’ve had to go all the way back down the steps, thirty flights to get out, since he couldn’t get back into the hall through this door,” Pickering added thoughtfully.
Mooney
“And one more thing.” Mulvaney’s voice took an ominous drop. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”
The sudden transition from rage to that of almost collegial intimacy made Mooney uneasy. “About what?”
“Not on the phone. In my office. Tomorrow.”
A long, rather strained pause ensued. “Fine. I’ll see you in the morning,” Mooney snapped and hung up the phone. When he turned, Fritzi was there, staring hard at him.
“Looks like you lost your best friend.”
“Worse, even. I lost three hundred bucks.”
“I lost seven hundred,” she beamed. “You don’t see me down in the mouth.”
“That’s different. You’re rich.”
“If I am, sailor, so are you.” She gave the flesh above his waist a pinch. “What’re you eating tonight?”
“Crow.”
“Don’t have any. What about pot roast?”
“Pot roast,” Sanchez intoned sepulchrally from his perch. “Pot roast.”
SEVEN
“THIS IS IT.”
Slumped in the backseat of the squad car, Mooney looked up from his Daily News.
“Four-thirty West Fifty-seventh.”
“What’s the name of the guy again?”
Pickering extracted the small sheet of crumpled paper from his pocket, smoothing it out on his knee. “Crane, Poole Associates. Room fourteen oh three. It’s Crane we’re looking for.”
Mooney nodded.
“Mr. Avery Crane.”
Grumbling to himself, Mooney lumbered up out of the squad car. “Wait here for us, Lopez,” he called over his shoulder at the driver. “We’ll be down in twenty minutes.”
“And she just stopped coming in?”
“Not like that. Not all at once. She tried coming in for a short time after. She was pretty shaky, so we tried her on half days.”
“And?”
“It went okay for a while. But it just got to be too much for her. For one thing, the work suffered. Messed up contracts. Didn’t give messages. Didn’t return phone calls. Stuff like that. She was distracted. Finally we suggested she take a vacation. With pay,” Mr. Crane hastened to add. He was a natty, fastidious man. Manicured and barbered impeccably. A vision in gray sideburns and good British tailoring. About him was an air of expensive cologne and the sort of inflated self-importance that becomes quickly annoyed with any interruption of its normal routine.
They were standing in a stairwell on the thirtieth floor of 430 West 57th Street.
“This the only stairwell on the floor?” Mooney asked. “That’s right. That’s the way they built them in nineteen twelve. Nowadays the fire code insists on a fire exit as well.”
Mooney gave the doorknob several sharp twists. “And the door’s always kept locked on the stairwell side like this?”
“If it wasn’t, we’d have every creep on Fifty-seventh Street flitting around up here. As it is …” His voice trailed off and he glanced at the two policemen uneasily. “I guess I don’t have to tell you people.”
Mooney sensed in the small, dapper figure before him another solid citizen, eager to inform a member of the local constabulary how badly they were doing their job.
“That washroom she was going to at the time …” He doodled in his pad. “That’s the only one on this floor?”
“Only women’s room. There’s a men’s room too. There are just eight tenants on the floor. You can’t get into them without a key.”
“Then he must’ve come up on the elevator,” Pickering said, “since those stairwell doors are always locked.”
Crane nodded. “I’d say so. Must’ve been just getting off the elevator when she stepped out of the office on her way to the washroom.”
“And that’s when he grabbed her and pulled her in here?”
“That’s essentially it. At least, that’s the story she told the police afterward.”
“He must’ve had to go all the way back down the steps, thirty flights to get out, since he couldn’t get back into the hall through this door,” Pickering added thoughtfully.
Mooney
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