Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

Rawne opened the dumb waiter, measuring the width of the shaft with his shoulders. “Hear that?” A siren wailed and faded. “Another radio car. There’ll be more. The house will be swarming with cops. Our inquisitive friend across the way phoned Centre Street.”

Rawne hauled down on the greasy rope. “If they catch you, baby, you’re in for a rough shuffle. Questions all night long. By morning line-up you’d have circles under your eyes you could trip over.”

The dumb-waiter box rattled up to the dirt-caked rectangle.

“Get in.” Rawne said. “I’ll stand on top and let us down easy — I hope.”

Lulie Nolan looked at him with terrified eyes. A bell rang and she jumped. With a hopeless expression she scrambled into the box. Rawne shot a strange glance at her. He lowered the box and muscled himself on top. At the bottom the girl was gone before he could get out. He picked up a rag, shrugging, and wiped his hands. She came back, trembling.

“Police!” Her voice was hoarse.

“It’s their party,” Rawne said.

They were in the furnace room. Pipes ran overhead and a naked bulb burned dimly. On the side wall next to a racked hose hung old work clothes, overalls, shirt, a boiler suit. A fire roared under a boiler and a scattering of coal was spread in front of the bin and the cement floor was covered with coal dust. A shovel lay near the wall under a fuse box which was open. The box was dusty, but there was no dust on the switch handle to the hall lights. A splatter of blood stipled the concrete wall. Rawne looked closely. The blood was fresh.

He took the girl’s hand. Her fingers gripped his. They were very cold. They went up a wooden stairs into a small storeroom that smelled of disinfectant and was cluttered with brooms and mops and squeegees. They went through a white, spotless kitchen to a bedroom furnished with double-decked walnut bunks and into the front room which faced the street. The Venetian blinds were shut and a bridge lamp was lit alongside a typewriter on a small metal desk.

Rawne went to the bathroom. When he came out, the blood was gone and his hair was combed.

“We’re in Schmidt’s apartment,” he said. “Schmidt the superintendent. This must be his quiet hour at the corner pub.”

The girl threw herself on the blue divan and put her hands over her eyes. Rawne looked at her thoughtfully, lower lip buried between his teeth, and then he took a turn about the room. The walls, rug and upholstery were a deep blue. A sheet of paper was in the typewriter. A white-enameled box in a corner was half filled with colored catalogs or something. On the long oaken library table the city’s business directory, was open to a page near the end.

Rawne took Lulie Nolan’s corde handbag and emptied it on the table. Among the jumbled contents were no hundred-dollar bills.

“Fork over,” Rawne said.

“I haven’t your dirty money,” the girl said bitterly.

“Do I have to search you?” Rawne said.

A loud pounding on the door cut off the girl’s retort.

“Any one in there?” a deep voice demanded. “Superintendent. You in there? Open up.”

Rawne’s eyes were harried. He stood in the center of the room, indecisive, looking at the door and then at the girl. He motioned toward the back rooms and the girl tiptoed across the rug. She had both hands to her mouth and her eyes were wide with terror when she went into the next room.

Swiftly Rawne got his clothes off and hung them in the closet. He stowed his gun and harness under sheets on the shelf, putting the girl’s bag with them. He rumpled his hair. When he opened the door, he was yawning and stretching.

“No vacancies,” he said drowsily.

A stout man in gray tropical worsted stuck his foot against the door. He wore a new light-cream panama. Purple veins mottled his cheeks. He had a thick, splayed nose and a double chin. He was grinning.

“What brand of sleeping pills you use, super?” he asked. “I want to get some for my wife.”

“Ask me tomorrow,” Rawne said, yawning.

“I probably will,” the stout man said. He came in, looked around quickly, and sat down, taking out a small notebook and a ball pen. “I’m Griffin. Lieutenant. Homicide. I ask questions in my sleep.”

“Homicide?” Rawne said with a note of disgust. “Where? Not in the hallway. I have enough trouble keeping this place clean.”

Rawne got his trousers from the superintendent’s closet.

“What do you know about Four A?” Griffin asked.

Rawne shoved a foot through a pants leg. “Four A? Greer? Jim Greer’s all right. A little slow on the rent, that’s all.”

Griffin jotted something in his book. The questions were routine and Rawne dressed while he answered them. Griffin stood up and put his notebook away.

“We’ll go up,” he said, “and view the stellar attraction. By the way, Schmidt,” he asked Rawne, “do you like perfume?”

“Huh!” Rawne looked at Griffin as though he hadn’t heard right. “Do I— Sure, sure.”

The hall lights were on, and Rawne’s palm left a moist trail on the railing. He kept wetting his lips. The fat man was puffing, but he wasn’t pouring sweat the way it was coming from Rawne.