Read Online The Anderson Tapes by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Police, Police Procedural, Large Type Books, New York, New York (State), New York (N.Y.), Men's Adventure, Delaney, Edward X. (Fictitious Character)
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furnishings. I didn’t spot anything except her wedding ring, which looked like it had been hacked out of Mount Rushmore. Seeing he’s a lawyer, I’d guess a wall safe somewhere. Good paintings, but too big to fool with. All huge, abstract stuff.
ANDERSON: Silver?
HASKINS: You don’t miss a trick, do you, darling? Yes, silver … on display and very nice. Antique, I think. Probably a wedding gift. It’s on a sideboard in their dining room. Any questions?
ANDERSON: Maid?
HASKINS: Not sleepin. She comes at noon and leaves after she serves their evening meal and cleans up. She’s German. A middle-aged woman. Now then … up to the third floor.
Apartment Three A. Mr. and Mrs. Max Horowitz. He’s retired.
Used to be a wholesale jeweler. She’s got bad arthritis of the knees and uses a cane to walk with. She’s also got three fur coats, including one mink and one sable, and drips with ice. At least, that’s what the doorman says. He also says they’re cheap bastards—a total of five bucks to all employees at Christmastime.
But he thinks they’re loaded. Apartment Three B. Mrs. Agnes Everleigh. Separated from her hubby. He owns the apartment, but she’s living there. Nothing much interesting. A mink coat, maybe. She’s a buyer for a chain of woman’s lingerie shops.
Travels a lot. Incidentally, I’ve been mentioning the fur coats—but of course you realize, darling, most of them will be in storage this time of year.
ANDERSON: Sure.
HASKINS: Fourth floor. Apartment Four A. Mr. and Mrs. James T.
Sheldon, with three-year-old twin girls. A sleepin maid who goes out shopping in the neighborhood every day at noon. I got into this apartment, too. I was there when the maid left. West Indian. A dish … if I was hungry that way. Lovely accent. Big boobs.
Flashing smile. Mrs. James T. Sheldon is a perfect fright: horse face, buck teeth, skin like burlap. She must have the money. And Mr. Sheldon must be pronging the maid. He’s a partner in a brokerage house, in charge of their Park Avenue branch. Lots of goodies. I caught a quick look at a wood-paneled study with glass display cases lining the walls. Then Mrs. Sheldon closed the door.
A coin collection, I think. It would fit. Easy to check.
ANDERSON: Yes. You say the maid goes shopping every day at noon?
HASKINS: That’s right. Like clockwork. I verified it with the doorman later. Her name’s Andronica.
ANDERSON: Andronica?
HASKINS: That’s right. It’s in the report. Crazy. Apartment Four B.
Mrs. Martha Hathway—not Hathaway but Hathway. A ninety-two-year-old widow, with an eighty-two-year-old companion-housekeeper. Somewhat nutty. Kind of a recluse.
ANDERSON: A what?
HASKINS: Recluse. Like a hermit. She rarely goes out. Watches TV
all day. Has no visitors. The housekeeper shops by phone. Ryan, the doorman, said her husband was a politician, a big shit in Tammany Hall about a thousand years ago. The apartment is furnished with stuff from the original Hathway town house on East Sixty-second Street. She sold off a lot of stuff after her husband died, but kept the best. It was a big auction, so you could check it out easy enough or I could do it for you.
ANDERSON: What do you figure she’s got?
HASKINS: Silver, jewelry, paintings … the works. It’s just a feeling I have, but I think Apartment Four B might prove to be a treasure house.
ANDERSON: Could be.
HASKINS: Top floor—the fifth. Both apartments have small terraces.
Apartment Five A. Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Bingham and their fifteen-year-old son, Gerald junior. The kid uses a wheelchair; he’s dead from the hips down. He has a private tutor who comes in every day.
Bingham has his own management consultant firm with offices on Madison Avenue. Also, he has his own limousine, chauffeur-driven, which is garaged over on Lex. He’s driven to work every morning, driven home every night. Sweet. He’s listed all over the place, so he won’t be hard to check out. His wife has money, too. I have
ANDERSON: Silver?
HASKINS: You don’t miss a trick, do you, darling? Yes, silver … on display and very nice. Antique, I think. Probably a wedding gift. It’s on a sideboard in their dining room. Any questions?
ANDERSON: Maid?
HASKINS: Not sleepin. She comes at noon and leaves after she serves their evening meal and cleans up. She’s German. A middle-aged woman. Now then … up to the third floor.
Apartment Three A. Mr. and Mrs. Max Horowitz. He’s retired.
Used to be a wholesale jeweler. She’s got bad arthritis of the knees and uses a cane to walk with. She’s also got three fur coats, including one mink and one sable, and drips with ice. At least, that’s what the doorman says. He also says they’re cheap bastards—a total of five bucks to all employees at Christmastime.
But he thinks they’re loaded. Apartment Three B. Mrs. Agnes Everleigh. Separated from her hubby. He owns the apartment, but she’s living there. Nothing much interesting. A mink coat, maybe. She’s a buyer for a chain of woman’s lingerie shops.
Travels a lot. Incidentally, I’ve been mentioning the fur coats—but of course you realize, darling, most of them will be in storage this time of year.
ANDERSON: Sure.
HASKINS: Fourth floor. Apartment Four A. Mr. and Mrs. James T.
Sheldon, with three-year-old twin girls. A sleepin maid who goes out shopping in the neighborhood every day at noon. I got into this apartment, too. I was there when the maid left. West Indian. A dish … if I was hungry that way. Lovely accent. Big boobs.
Flashing smile. Mrs. James T. Sheldon is a perfect fright: horse face, buck teeth, skin like burlap. She must have the money. And Mr. Sheldon must be pronging the maid. He’s a partner in a brokerage house, in charge of their Park Avenue branch. Lots of goodies. I caught a quick look at a wood-paneled study with glass display cases lining the walls. Then Mrs. Sheldon closed the door.
A coin collection, I think. It would fit. Easy to check.
ANDERSON: Yes. You say the maid goes shopping every day at noon?
HASKINS: That’s right. Like clockwork. I verified it with the doorman later. Her name’s Andronica.
ANDERSON: Andronica?
HASKINS: That’s right. It’s in the report. Crazy. Apartment Four B.
Mrs. Martha Hathway—not Hathaway but Hathway. A ninety-two-year-old widow, with an eighty-two-year-old companion-housekeeper. Somewhat nutty. Kind of a recluse.
ANDERSON: A what?
HASKINS: Recluse. Like a hermit. She rarely goes out. Watches TV
all day. Has no visitors. The housekeeper shops by phone. Ryan, the doorman, said her husband was a politician, a big shit in Tammany Hall about a thousand years ago. The apartment is furnished with stuff from the original Hathway town house on East Sixty-second Street. She sold off a lot of stuff after her husband died, but kept the best. It was a big auction, so you could check it out easy enough or I could do it for you.
ANDERSON: What do you figure she’s got?
HASKINS: Silver, jewelry, paintings … the works. It’s just a feeling I have, but I think Apartment Four B might prove to be a treasure house.
ANDERSON: Could be.
HASKINS: Top floor—the fifth. Both apartments have small terraces.
Apartment Five A. Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Bingham and their fifteen-year-old son, Gerald junior. The kid uses a wheelchair; he’s dead from the hips down. He has a private tutor who comes in every day.
Bingham has his own management consultant firm with offices on Madison Avenue. Also, he has his own limousine, chauffeur-driven, which is garaged over on Lex. He’s driven to work every morning, driven home every night. Sweet. He’s listed all over the place, so he won’t be hard to check out. His wife has money, too. I have
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