The Black Door by Collin Wilcox Page A

Grinnel’s wardrobe resembled her room, lacking a girl’s typical verve and frivolity. Yet, remembering the corpse in the small, disheveled bedroom, she must have been desirable, even beautiful.
    I turned to Simcich.
    “Anything new?”
    He shrugged. “If there is, you probably know more about it than I do. I been sitting right here for the past two, three hours.”
    I glanced around at the room’s polished surfaces.
    “Has the place been fingerprinted yet?”
    He shook his head.
    I looked again at the desk, the dresser, and bookcase. Then I realized what I was hoping to find: photographs of the girl’s parents, her friends and her schoolmates.
    “Nothing’s been disturbed?” I asked. “How about the pictures?”
    Simcich sighed. “Nothing’s been touched. I promise you.”
    “Isn’t anyone coming here to look the place over?”
    “They’ve been.” Simcich’s voice became faintly plaintive. Obviously, he was anxious to return to his book. “Bancroft and I came out first thing, about nine o’clock. We looked around. I, being a Detective Third Grade, got stuck.”
    “Why didn’t you just leave the door sealed? I see it’s been broken.”
    Again he sighed, and now closed his book and laid it aside, pointedly. “We sealed it and started to leave. Then it occurred to Bancroft that the members of the press would be out here in bunches. We decided to leave me here. As an accommodation, you might say.” He spread his arms, to encompass the bleak, empty room. “So here I am. At your—”
    A knock sounded on the door. Simcich rose, crossed the small room in four strides, and opened the door. The members of KPAX’s television team stood outside. As they came into the room, nodding to me, I thanked Simcich and left. I walked down the hallway, gazing at the double row of closed, cloistered doors. Did I dare to knock at one? I paused, stood in the middle of the hallway, and thought about it. Then, suddenly impatient with my own timidity, I turned on my heel and rapped smartly on the second door down from Roberta Grinnel’s, on the same side of the corridor.
    “Who is it?” came a girl’s voice.
    “It’s, ah, Stephen Drake. From the Sentinel. May I talk to you?”
    “Just a minute, please.” I heard a drawer bang shut, and a door close. Footsteps were approaching, and the hallway door opened. A short, dumpy brunette wearing a sweat shirt, blue jeans, and horn-rimmed glasses stood coolly regarding me.
    “Are you a reporter?” she asked.
    “Yes. I’m looking for some, ah, background material on Roberta Grinnel. Did you know her?”
    For a moment she didn’t reply, but continued to look at me with her impersonal, disconcerting stare.
    “Yes. I knew her. As well as anyone, anyhow.”
    I looked past her, into the room. Then I glanced up and down the hallway. I thought I heard a furtively closed door and a giggle unsuccessfully stifled.
    “Look,” I said, moving a half step toward her. “I’m not used to standing in the hallway of girls’ dormitories. May I please come in?”
    She smiled, but humorlessly, as if she were pleased to find me flustered. Then she stepped back.
    “All right,” she said gracelessly. “But it’s already noon. I have a one o’clock, and I haven’t eaten yet.” She closed the door, motioned me to an armchair, and sat on the bed. With a no-nonsense air, she turned to face me. And waited.
    I took out my notebook. “It’ll just take a minute, Miss … ?”
    “The name is Stephenson,” she abruptly replied. “Betty Stephenson. But—” She pointed to the notebook. “If I were you, I wouldn’t use the name. Not without checking with my father.” She said it as if no further identification of her father was necessary. Somehow, the assumption irritated me.
    “Who is your father, may I ask?” I chilled my tone to match her own.
    “He’s board chairman of Waterford Steel.”
    “Oh.” I closed the notebook, deciding that I’d get nowhere antagonizing her. “Yes.