Plot It Yourself

After pushing the Rennert button in the vestibule three times, with waits between, and getting no reaction, I started to work on the door. My position on locks is about the same as on fingerprints-I couldn’t qualify as an expert witness, but I have picked up a lot of pointers. Of course I had noticed on my previous visit that the street-door lock and the one upstairs were both Hansens. Anywhere and everywhere you go you should always notice the kind of lock, in case it becomes necessary at some future time to get in without help.

Hansens are good locks, but I had a good assortment. I was under no pressure; if someone had appeared from either direction, I was merely using the wrong key. In three minutes, maybe less, I got it and was inside. The elevator wasn’t there; I pushed the button to bring it down, entered, and pushed the “4” button. The door to the apartment took longer than the one downstairs because I was too stubborn in trying to make the same key do, but finally I had it I swung the door gently six inches and stood with my ear cocked. At that hour Sunday morning Rennert might have ignored the phone and the doorbell. Hearing nothing except traffic sounds from the street, I swung the door farther and entered the nice big room.

He was lying on the nice big couch, on his back. One swift glance, even from a distance, was enough to show that he wasn’t asleep. His face was so swollen that no one would have dreamed of calling him handsome, and the handle of a knife was protruding from his chest, which was bare because the dressing gown he had on was open in front down to the belt. I crossed over. The skin of his belly was green. I pressed a finger on the skin at a couple of spots below the ribs; it was tight and rubbery. I put on the rubber gloves and removed one of his slippers and tried the toes; they were flabby. I bent over to get my nose an inch from his open mouth and inhaled; once was enough. He had been dead at least two days, and probably three or four.