Bread (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain Page B

marked with the brass numerals 34. As she unlocked the door, she said, “How’d he get killed?”
    “Someone shot him,” Hawes said.
    “Figures,” the woman said, and opened the door, and led him into the apartment.
    “He live here alone?” Hawes asked.
    “All alone,” the woman said.
    There were three rooms in the apartment: a kitchen, a living room, and a bedroom. Except for some dirty dishes in the sink and a bed that had been hastily made, the apartment was neat and clean. Hawes raised the shades on both living-room windows, and sunlight streamed into the room “What’d you say your name was?” the woman asked.
    “Detective Hawes.”
    “I’m Barbara Loomis,” she said.
    The living room was sparsely and inexpensively furnished: a couch, an easy chair, a standing floor lamp, a television set. An imitation oil painting of a shepherd and a dog in a pastoral landscape hung over the couch. An ashtray with several cigar butts in it was on the coffee table.
    Barbara sat in one of the easy chairs and crossed her legs. “Where’d you get that white streak in your hair?” she asked.
    “I was stabbed by a building superintendent,” Hawes said.
    “Really?” Barbara said, and laughed unexpectedly. “You just can’t trust supers,” she said, still laughing. “Nor their wives, either,” she added, and looked at Hawes.
    “Did Reardon smoke cigars?” he asked.
    “I don’t know what he smoked,” Barbara said. “I still don’t see why it’s white.”
    “They had to shave the hair to get at the wound. It grew back white.”
    “It’s cute,” Barbara said.
    Hawes went out of the living room and into the bedroom. Barbara stayed in the easy chair, watching him through the doorframe. There was a bed, a dresser, an end table with a lamp on it, and a straight-backed chair over which was draped a striped sports shirt. A package of Camel cigarettes and a matchbook advertising an art school were in the pocket of the shirt. The bed was covered with a white chenille spread. Hawes pulled back the spread and looked at the pillows. There were lipstick stains on one of them. He went to what he assumed was the closet, and opened the door. Four suits, a sports jacket, and two pairs of slacks were hanging on the wooden bar. A pair of brown shoes and a pair of black shoes were on the floor. A blue woolen bathrobe was hanging on the door hook. On the shelf above the bar, there was a blue peaked cap and a gray fedora. Hawes closed the door and went to the dresser. Opening the top drawer, he asked, “How long was Reardon living here?”
    “Moved in about a year ago,” Barbara said.
    “What kind of a tenant was he?”
    “Quiet, for the most part. Brought women in every now and then, but who cared about that? Man’s entitled to a little comfort every now and then, don’t you think?”
    The top drawer of the dresser contained handkerchiefs, socks, ties, and a candy tin with a painted floral design. Hawes lifted off the cover. There were six sealed condoms in the tin, a photostated copy of Reardon’s birth certificate, his discharge papers from the United States Navy, and a passbook for a savings account at one of the city’s larger banks. Hawes opened the passbook.
    “Can’t say I cared much for the company he was keeping these past few weeks,” Barbara said.
    “What kind of company was that?” Hawes asked.
    “Coloreds,” Barbara said.
    The passbook showed that Frank Reardon had deposited $5,000 in his account on August 2, five days before the warehouse fire. His previous deposits, on July 15 and June 24, had been for $42.00 and $17.00 respectively. The balance, before the $5,000 deposit, had been $376.44. Hawes put the passbook into his jacket pocket.
    “I got nothing against coloreds,” Barbara said, “so long as they stay uptown. He had these two big coloreds coming here, and last week he had this bitch come in stinking of perfume. Couldn’t get her smell out of the hallway for a week. You should’ve seen