"Six--on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out."
"Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're
just checking for sources."
Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own
quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a
minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she
did not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the
stairs.
The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was
small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on
the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest--the room was
ordinary in every sense.
But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent.
There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized
suitcase, stood on end.
And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throat
had been cut.
Brent Taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like an
interminable time. His eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiff
as he passed a slow hand along his jaw.
He took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as though
hoping the whole improbable mess would go away. But it was still there
when he opened them again.
He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the
wall by the front door.
The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What are
you doing here?"
He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got a
dime, lady?"
Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin.
"Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?"
There was a wait, during which Brent Taber asked the oddly bemused
landlady: "Are you afraid of the dead?"
But before she could decide whether she was or not, Taber turned to the
phone. "Captain?.... That's right, Brent Taber ... No, right, here in
Manhattan. There's been a little trouble. You'd better come over
personally."