worse?”
“We’ll have to check her doctors for that.”
“You see what I’m driving at, don’t you? The possibility of a mercy killing?”
“If it was, it was done the most unmerciful way in history. I don’t think so, Lieutenant. It looks more emotional than calculated.”
“How about her date? Could he have come up there jealous?”
“I doubt it. Remember the shirt. But a lot of things are possible. I’ve no doubt you’re going to turn out some very fine gentlemen with those prints and that little book of hers.”
“But you don’t buy any of them, is that it, Goldie?”
Goldsmith shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.” He picked up a match from the floor and examined it almost as though it were a clue to the matter at hand. “Take the shirt the guy was wearing—cheap, worn, but there’d been starch in the collar. No laundry marks.” He looked up at the lieutenant. “Somebody was taking awfully good care of that guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if poor old Dolly tried it, too, in her own fashion. But she wasn’t the kind to dip his collars in starch. I wonder who is.”
“What size collar?”
“Fourteen and a half. A little man.”
“A little man scorned …”
“I wonder,” Goldsmith said.
“Is he the fellow Mrs. Flaherty described?”
“That’s quite possible, and to quote her on it, he was one man she entertained in street clothes. A brother to her.”
Holden got up and gathered the reports. “He’s your kind of guy, isn’t he, Goldie?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. I’ll put McCormick on the others. Unless they counter me from upstairs, he’s yours.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“Just keep in touch. That’s all. No secrets. Keep me posted.”
“Every step of the way.”
12
I N THE BIG KITCHEN of the house on West Twelfth Street, Lenore Galli sat beside the open window. A pile of socks and her sewing basket were on the table. She had not touched them. Upstairs a chair scraped across the floor and Tim’s footsteps began again, back and forth across the room, forth and back. Then quiet. She counted on her fingers the hours he had been working. It was ten o’clock now. Six hours.
She unfolded a pair of socks and used one of them as a fan. A cat whined somewhere not far from the window. The snarl spiraled into screeching that sent a bolt of pain to her head. The pain eased off. She sighed and listened to the scratchy flight of one cat up the withered catalpa tree near the window. Her body tensed as she waited for the sound of pursuit. The roughness of her fingers caught a few threads of the sock. She looked at her hands. Rummaging in the sewing basket she found scissors and cut away the hangnails and with the point cleaned beneath her nails. The screaming of the cats started again. Someone next door flung up his window and shouted out. There was a moment’s silence, then a low, persistent snarl. A few seconds later she heard a splash of water and the scurried flight of the animals.
She got up then and went to the kitchen sink, where she soaped and soaked her hands, all the while examining her face this way and that in the minor above the sink. She sniffed about herself for any smell of perspiration, and after she had dried her hands, dabbed herself with cologne. She combed her hair, straightening the part in the middle and then turned to look at herself with the hair flowing down her back. It was still a deep brown, although a few threads of gray shivered through it. After a moment of reflection on the way it failed to cover her thickening shoulders, she braided it up again: She rubbed her face in the towel and fluffed powder on it. There were no lines yet except the laughing kind, and her eyes were rich, shining limpidly back at her from the mirror.
She tidied the sink and went to the refrigerator. Taking a leg of chicken from it, tomatoes and preserves, she fixed a tray and took it upstairs. In the upstairs hall, she set the tray down for a moment on a little table.
“We’ll have to check her doctors for that.”
“You see what I’m driving at, don’t you? The possibility of a mercy killing?”
“If it was, it was done the most unmerciful way in history. I don’t think so, Lieutenant. It looks more emotional than calculated.”
“How about her date? Could he have come up there jealous?”
“I doubt it. Remember the shirt. But a lot of things are possible. I’ve no doubt you’re going to turn out some very fine gentlemen with those prints and that little book of hers.”
“But you don’t buy any of them, is that it, Goldie?”
Goldsmith shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.” He picked up a match from the floor and examined it almost as though it were a clue to the matter at hand. “Take the shirt the guy was wearing—cheap, worn, but there’d been starch in the collar. No laundry marks.” He looked up at the lieutenant. “Somebody was taking awfully good care of that guy. I wouldn’t be surprised if poor old Dolly tried it, too, in her own fashion. But she wasn’t the kind to dip his collars in starch. I wonder who is.”
“What size collar?”
“Fourteen and a half. A little man.”
“A little man scorned …”
“I wonder,” Goldsmith said.
“Is he the fellow Mrs. Flaherty described?”
“That’s quite possible, and to quote her on it, he was one man she entertained in street clothes. A brother to her.”
Holden got up and gathered the reports. “He’s your kind of guy, isn’t he, Goldie?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. I’ll put McCormick on the others. Unless they counter me from upstairs, he’s yours.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“Just keep in touch. That’s all. No secrets. Keep me posted.”
“Every step of the way.”
12
I N THE BIG KITCHEN of the house on West Twelfth Street, Lenore Galli sat beside the open window. A pile of socks and her sewing basket were on the table. She had not touched them. Upstairs a chair scraped across the floor and Tim’s footsteps began again, back and forth across the room, forth and back. Then quiet. She counted on her fingers the hours he had been working. It was ten o’clock now. Six hours.
She unfolded a pair of socks and used one of them as a fan. A cat whined somewhere not far from the window. The snarl spiraled into screeching that sent a bolt of pain to her head. The pain eased off. She sighed and listened to the scratchy flight of one cat up the withered catalpa tree near the window. Her body tensed as she waited for the sound of pursuit. The roughness of her fingers caught a few threads of the sock. She looked at her hands. Rummaging in the sewing basket she found scissors and cut away the hangnails and with the point cleaned beneath her nails. The screaming of the cats started again. Someone next door flung up his window and shouted out. There was a moment’s silence, then a low, persistent snarl. A few seconds later she heard a splash of water and the scurried flight of the animals.
She got up then and went to the kitchen sink, where she soaped and soaked her hands, all the while examining her face this way and that in the minor above the sink. She sniffed about herself for any smell of perspiration, and after she had dried her hands, dabbed herself with cologne. She combed her hair, straightening the part in the middle and then turned to look at herself with the hair flowing down her back. It was still a deep brown, although a few threads of gray shivered through it. After a moment of reflection on the way it failed to cover her thickening shoulders, she braided it up again: She rubbed her face in the towel and fluffed powder on it. There were no lines yet except the laughing kind, and her eyes were rich, shining limpidly back at her from the mirror.
She tidied the sink and went to the refrigerator. Taking a leg of chicken from it, tomatoes and preserves, she fixed a tray and took it upstairs. In the upstairs hall, she set the tray down for a moment on a little table.
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