couldn’t help grinning—just like on television. The spring lock slid back easily, and Steve slipped in the door and climbed the flight of stairs. There were two apartments on the second floor. Steve located apartment 2A, knocked on the door, and waited. There was no answer. Steve tried again, louder this time, then put his ear to the door and listened. There was not a sound from the apartment. Cursing the fact that he didn’t have a set of passkeys, Steve inspected the lock. He jiggled the doorknob, and to his surprise it clicked open. He hesitated a moment, then opened the door.
The body of David C. Bradshaw lay face down on the floor in a pool of blood. The handle of a large carving knife protruded from between his shoulder blades. Bradshaw’s head was twisted sideways, and his eyes, in the glassy stare of death, seemed to be glancing over his shoulder, as if he were preparing to ditch one last shadow.
Steve couldn’t help recoiling. It was, after all, his first dead body. He drew back, took a couple of deep breaths, and shook his head to clear it. Then he looked at the body again. No, it was something he’d never seen before, but something he’d visualized many times. The tableau, he realized, was exactly like the one Sheila Benton had described to him, in his other, his first, his one and only murder case—the dead man lying on the floor, the knife sticking out of his back. He knew now a little bit how Sheila must have felt. And this wasn’t even his apartment, as it had been hers. God!
Steve snapped himself out of it. Time to think about it later. Right now, what do you do?
Steve stooped and checked for a pulse. As expected there was none. But the body was still warm, indicating that Bradshaw had been dead for a very short time.
Steve stood up and surveyed the apartment. Apparently there had been a terrific struggle. Chairs were overturned, a night table was smashed, and the phone was lying on the floor with the receiver off the hook.
On the desk in the corner that had not been touched was a small portable typewriter. Steve walked over and looked at it. It was a Smith Corona.
A police siren sounded outside in the street. Steve ran to the front window. A police car was pulling up in front of the building. Steve whirled, looking for a way out. Apartment 2A was the corner apartment, with windows on both East 3rd Street and the side alley. Steve raced to the side windows and looked out. There was no fire escape in the alley. Hell, it was too risky anyway. If they caught him trying to flee he’d be dead. Steve hurried back to the desk, grabbed a piece of paper, shoved it into the machine, and typed, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.” He tore the page from the typewriter, then whipped out his handkerchief and polished the typewriter keys. He thrust the handkerchief back in his pocket, crumpled the paper into a ball, ran to the side window, opened it, and hurled the paper into the alley. As he did so, Steve heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Steve closed the window quietly, tiptoed across the room, and settled back on the couch just as an imperative knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Steve called.
Two officers entered the room and stopped short as they saw the body on the floor.
A woman behind the officers said, “He may be quiet now, but when I called—” She broke off as she saw the body.
Then she screamed.
Then the officers spotted Steve Winslow. One officer drew his gun. The other officer followed suit.
“All right, buddy,” said the first officer. “Hold it right there.”
Steve Winslow smiled and put up his hands. “All right,” he said. “You got me.”
11.
F RANK S ULLIVAN COULD HAVE BEEN at peace with the world. He had his collar—Steve Winslow; he had his paper—the Daily News; and he had a comfortable chair. The only thing intruding upon his tranquility was in the form of a 250-pound, fifty-five year old spinster named Miss Dobson,
The body of David C. Bradshaw lay face down on the floor in a pool of blood. The handle of a large carving knife protruded from between his shoulder blades. Bradshaw’s head was twisted sideways, and his eyes, in the glassy stare of death, seemed to be glancing over his shoulder, as if he were preparing to ditch one last shadow.
Steve couldn’t help recoiling. It was, after all, his first dead body. He drew back, took a couple of deep breaths, and shook his head to clear it. Then he looked at the body again. No, it was something he’d never seen before, but something he’d visualized many times. The tableau, he realized, was exactly like the one Sheila Benton had described to him, in his other, his first, his one and only murder case—the dead man lying on the floor, the knife sticking out of his back. He knew now a little bit how Sheila must have felt. And this wasn’t even his apartment, as it had been hers. God!
Steve snapped himself out of it. Time to think about it later. Right now, what do you do?
Steve stooped and checked for a pulse. As expected there was none. But the body was still warm, indicating that Bradshaw had been dead for a very short time.
Steve stood up and surveyed the apartment. Apparently there had been a terrific struggle. Chairs were overturned, a night table was smashed, and the phone was lying on the floor with the receiver off the hook.
On the desk in the corner that had not been touched was a small portable typewriter. Steve walked over and looked at it. It was a Smith Corona.
A police siren sounded outside in the street. Steve ran to the front window. A police car was pulling up in front of the building. Steve whirled, looking for a way out. Apartment 2A was the corner apartment, with windows on both East 3rd Street and the side alley. Steve raced to the side windows and looked out. There was no fire escape in the alley. Hell, it was too risky anyway. If they caught him trying to flee he’d be dead. Steve hurried back to the desk, grabbed a piece of paper, shoved it into the machine, and typed, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.” He tore the page from the typewriter, then whipped out his handkerchief and polished the typewriter keys. He thrust the handkerchief back in his pocket, crumpled the paper into a ball, ran to the side window, opened it, and hurled the paper into the alley. As he did so, Steve heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Steve closed the window quietly, tiptoed across the room, and settled back on the couch just as an imperative knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” Steve called.
Two officers entered the room and stopped short as they saw the body on the floor.
A woman behind the officers said, “He may be quiet now, but when I called—” She broke off as she saw the body.
Then she screamed.
Then the officers spotted Steve Winslow. One officer drew his gun. The other officer followed suit.
“All right, buddy,” said the first officer. “Hold it right there.”
Steve Winslow smiled and put up his hands. “All right,” he said. “You got me.”
11.
F RANK S ULLIVAN COULD HAVE BEEN at peace with the world. He had his collar—Steve Winslow; he had his paper—the Daily News; and he had a comfortable chair. The only thing intruding upon his tranquility was in the form of a 250-pound, fifty-five year old spinster named Miss Dobson,
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