Read Online Tengu by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online Page B

anyway.
    Even his
seduction had been a model of politeness.
    They waited in
silence. The apartment began to fade as the afternoon light faded. They could
even hear the sound of the elevators rising and falling through the building.
    Eventually Mr.
Esmeralda stood up. He said, “You will allow me to call you, then? One evening, when your husband is engaged with work.”
    “You can call,
yes,” she said, her mouth dry.
    “Perhaps dinner, a few cocktails. Dancing.”
    “Perhaps.”
    He smiled. The same smile. He bowed his head.
    “I shall look
forward to it, my dear Mrs. Crowley, in the same way that the night sky looks
forward to the lighting up of the stars.”
    She lowered her
eyes. “That’s the first sham sentiment you’ve uttered.”
    “Yes,” he
agreed. “But I am a Colombian, and all Colombians are permitted one sham
sentiment per day.”
    She said
nothing more. He waited a while longer, and then left. His shoes clicked on the
floor.
    He closed the
apartment door behind him.
    She sat in the
X-legged chair, staring unblinkingly at the opposite wall and wondering if this
was the way all marriages ended.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    S ergeant Skrolnik pressed the doorbell for the third time. Beside
him, Detective Arthur took out a Kleenex that was crumpled into a tiny,
tattered ball and wiped his nose. Skrolnik said, “If you could run like your
nose, Irving, you’d catch every murderer in town.”
    Detective
Arthur sniffed and didn’t answer. There was flowering jasmine tangled around
the doorway of this shabby three-story building on Franklin Avenue, and
flowering jasmine always got to his sinus. He wished somebody would hurry up
and open the door so that he could ask for a fresh Kleenex. With almost
masochistic regularity, he forgot to bring along a pack of his own.
    “It doesn’t
look like there’s anyone here,” said Skrolnik, stepping back onto the cracked
concrete path and shading his eyes so that he could peer up at the second-floor
windows. “Can you make it back here this afternoon on your own? I have a
briefing with Captain Martin.”
    Detective
Arthur shrugged okay and sniffed again, more conclusively this time.
    Skrolnik was
turning to leave when a downstairs window opened, and a withered old man looked
out. “Did you want something?” he asked in a tremulous voice.
    Skrolnik turned
back and stared at him. “No, no. I was just testing your response to your
doorbell. It’s a new city ordinance, you mustn’t respond to your doorbell for
at least ten minutes. But I’m glad to say you’ve passed with flying colors.”
    “Doorbell?”
queried the old man. “That doorbell hasn’t worked in fifteen years. You want anybody, you have to throw stones at the winders.”
    Skrolnik looked
at Detective Arthur, and then back at the old man. “How
foolish of me. I didn’t realize. Is Mack Holt home?”
    “Sure. He’s on
nights this week. He’s probably sleeping.”
    “Should I throw
a stone at his window, or might you come and open this door for me?”
    “Maybe he
doesn’t want to see you.”
    “Maybe he
doesn’t have any choice,” said Skrolnik, and produced his badge. The old man
screwed up his eyes so that he could make out what it was, and then said: “Oh.”
    It took another
two or three minutes before he came shuffling to the door to let them in.
    Skrolnik said:
“Thanks. If you ever need us cops for any reason, I hope we come just as quick .”
    “It’s
upstairs,” said the old man, oblivious to Skrolnik’s sarcasm.
    The hallway was
dim, and smellcd of Lysol and cheap tile polish. The walls were roughly
plastered and painted an unpleasant shade of orange. Someone had penciled by
the lightswitch:
    “Sherry: L
called, wants to know if you can call back.” It was an epitaph to Sherry
Cantor’s past. It would probably still be there when they tore the building
down.
    Skrolnik led
the way up the noisy stairs. He crossed the landing and knocked loudly on the
door numbered 2. Almost