Read Online Streets of Death - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dell Shannon
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minded that question about her shopping trip?) The narrow old
streets down from Wilshire were dispirited and drably gray in the
drizzle. The six-family apartment, when they went into it, was silent
as the grave. Everybody here out at work, except the bibulous Mr.
Offerdahl. There was a tiny square lobby with a single row of locked
mailboxes. They climbed uncarpeted stairs, steep and slanted old
stairs--no, a man in a wheelchair couldn’t have come down here, and
if he had somehow crawled down, where had he gone from there?--to the
second of three floors. There were two doors opposite each other in a
short hall. Galeano remembered Mrs. Del Sardo across the hall, who
had seen Fleming that morning as Marta said good-bye to him.
Mendoza fitted the key in the lock and opened the
door.
It was a small, old, inconvenient apartment: what she
could afford. But it was all as shiningly clean as the restaurant
where she worked, furniture polished, stove and kitchen counter-top
immaculate; that was a German girl for you, thought Galeano. There
was the wheelchair, pushed to one side of the little living room, a
steel and gray-green canvas affair. A few pieces of solid dark
furniture, probably chosen with care at secondhand stores, possibly
several pieces bought before his accident, when he was still earning
and they were planning a home of their own. Just the one bedroom,
sparsely furnished: a small square bathroom, a minimum of cosmetics
in the medicine cabinet. She had wonderful skin, milk-white,
evidently didn’t use much on it.
"There is," said Mendoza, "only one
little thing in my mind, boys." He looked out the rear window in
the bedroom. "Yes, even as Carey said--who was to see anything
there was to see?" This was a square building on a short lot.
There was a single driveway to a row of six connected single garages
across the back; and on the lot behind a building had recently been
torn down. The old house across from the driveway was vacant, with a
FOR RENT sign in front of it. "Just one thing," said
Mendoza. "When did she have time?"
"Time for what?" said Conway. "She
took care to have an alibi. We said--"
"Time to acquire the boyfriend. She’s working
eight hours a day, and Edwin must have taken up some more. On the
other hand, there is Rappaport. Quite a handsome fellow. Right at the
restaurant."
"Oh, for God’s sake," said Galeano.
"And then again, a restaurant. Sometimes these
things don’t take all that long. Quite probably there are regular
customers. And she could be out shopping on Sunday, on her afternoon
break, without the neighbors noticing--there is that. But how in hell
to locate him, if it isn’t Rappaport--there won’t be any
letters--"
"Woolgathering!" said Galeano. "And
you’re supposed to be such a hot detective! If you can’t see that
that girl is honest as day--"
Mendoza shook his head at him. "You do surprise
me, Nick. Let’s see if Mr. Offerdahl is home." Carey had said
he was down the hall; actually Offerdahl lived on the next floor.
They climbed more steep stairs, knocked. There were fumbling sounds
beyond the door; presently it opened and Offerdahl gazed blearily out
at them.
He was the wreck of a once big man: still tall and
broad-shouldered, but cadaverously thin, a few wisps of white hair on
a round skull, his skin gray and flabby. He was not quite
falling-down drunk, and a rich aroma of Scotch enfolded him.
"About Mr. Fleming," said Mendoza
conversationally.
Offerdahl blinked. "You used to go see Mr.
Fleming? The fellow in the wheelchair? Take him a little drink now
and then to cheer him up?"
"Tha’s right," said Offerdahl after a
dragging moment. "Poor fella. Poor fella. Jus’ young fella.
Para-paraparalyzed."
"Did you see him a week ago last Friday?"
"Oh, don’t be silly," muttered Galeano.
"He doesn’t know March from December."
"Haven’t you found the poor fella yet?"
asked Offerdahl. "Strange. ’S very strange. Poor, poor fella."
He leaned on the door jamb looking
streets down from Wilshire were dispirited and drably gray in the
drizzle. The six-family apartment, when they went into it, was silent
as the grave. Everybody here out at work, except the bibulous Mr.
Offerdahl. There was a tiny square lobby with a single row of locked
mailboxes. They climbed uncarpeted stairs, steep and slanted old
stairs--no, a man in a wheelchair couldn’t have come down here, and
if he had somehow crawled down, where had he gone from there?--to the
second of three floors. There were two doors opposite each other in a
short hall. Galeano remembered Mrs. Del Sardo across the hall, who
had seen Fleming that morning as Marta said good-bye to him.
Mendoza fitted the key in the lock and opened the
door.
It was a small, old, inconvenient apartment: what she
could afford. But it was all as shiningly clean as the restaurant
where she worked, furniture polished, stove and kitchen counter-top
immaculate; that was a German girl for you, thought Galeano. There
was the wheelchair, pushed to one side of the little living room, a
steel and gray-green canvas affair. A few pieces of solid dark
furniture, probably chosen with care at secondhand stores, possibly
several pieces bought before his accident, when he was still earning
and they were planning a home of their own. Just the one bedroom,
sparsely furnished: a small square bathroom, a minimum of cosmetics
in the medicine cabinet. She had wonderful skin, milk-white,
evidently didn’t use much on it.
"There is," said Mendoza, "only one
little thing in my mind, boys." He looked out the rear window in
the bedroom. "Yes, even as Carey said--who was to see anything
there was to see?" This was a square building on a short lot.
There was a single driveway to a row of six connected single garages
across the back; and on the lot behind a building had recently been
torn down. The old house across from the driveway was vacant, with a
FOR RENT sign in front of it. "Just one thing," said
Mendoza. "When did she have time?"
"Time for what?" said Conway. "She
took care to have an alibi. We said--"
"Time to acquire the boyfriend. She’s working
eight hours a day, and Edwin must have taken up some more. On the
other hand, there is Rappaport. Quite a handsome fellow. Right at the
restaurant."
"Oh, for God’s sake," said Galeano.
"And then again, a restaurant. Sometimes these
things don’t take all that long. Quite probably there are regular
customers. And she could be out shopping on Sunday, on her afternoon
break, without the neighbors noticing--there is that. But how in hell
to locate him, if it isn’t Rappaport--there won’t be any
letters--"
"Woolgathering!" said Galeano. "And
you’re supposed to be such a hot detective! If you can’t see that
that girl is honest as day--"
Mendoza shook his head at him. "You do surprise
me, Nick. Let’s see if Mr. Offerdahl is home." Carey had said
he was down the hall; actually Offerdahl lived on the next floor.
They climbed more steep stairs, knocked. There were fumbling sounds
beyond the door; presently it opened and Offerdahl gazed blearily out
at them.
He was the wreck of a once big man: still tall and
broad-shouldered, but cadaverously thin, a few wisps of white hair on
a round skull, his skin gray and flabby. He was not quite
falling-down drunk, and a rich aroma of Scotch enfolded him.
"About Mr. Fleming," said Mendoza
conversationally.
Offerdahl blinked. "You used to go see Mr.
Fleming? The fellow in the wheelchair? Take him a little drink now
and then to cheer him up?"
"Tha’s right," said Offerdahl after a
dragging moment. "Poor fella. Poor fella. Jus’ young fella.
Para-paraparalyzed."
"Did you see him a week ago last Friday?"
"Oh, don’t be silly," muttered Galeano.
"He doesn’t know March from December."
"Haven’t you found the poor fella yet?"
asked Offerdahl. "Strange. ’S very strange. Poor, poor fella."
He leaned on the door jamb looking
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