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"Here," Hawes said, and handed her the dime. He did so knowing full well that even if the coin had belonged to the occupant of the room, it was as impossible to get latent prints from money as it was to get reimbursed by the city for gasoline used in one's private car on police business.

"Is there a john in here?" he asked.

"Down the hall. Lock the door behind you."

"I only wanted to know if there was another room, that's all."

"It's clean, if that's what you're worrying about."

"I'm sure it's spotless," Hawes said. He took another look around. "So this is it, huh?"

"This is it."

"I'll be sending a man over to dust that sill," Hawes said.

"Why?" the landlady said. "It's clean."

"I mean for fingerprins."

"Oh." The landlady started at him. "You think that big mucky-muck was shot from this room?"

"It's possible," Hawes said.

"Will that mean trouble for me?"

"Not unless you shot him," Hawes said, and smiled.

"You got some sense of humor," the landlady said.

They went out of the apartment. The landlady locked the door behind her. "Will that be all," she asked, "or did you want to see anything else?"

"I want to talk to the woman down the hall," Hawes said, "but I won't need you for that. Thank you very much, you were very helpful."

"It breaks the monotony," the landlady said, and he believed her.

"Thank you again," he said, and watched her as she went down the steps. He walked to the door marked 32 and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and said, "Miss Malloy?"

The door opened a crack.

"Who is it?" a voice said.

"Police officer. May I talk to you?"

"What about?"

"About Mr. Orecchio."

"I don't know any Mr. Orecchio," the voice said.

"Miss Malloy …"

"It's Mrs. Malloy, and I don't know any Mr. Orecchio."

"Could you open the door, ma'am?"

"I don't want any trouble."

"I won't …"

"I know a man got shot last night, I don't want any trouble."

"Did you hear the shots, Miss Malloy?"

"Mrs. Malloy."

"Did you?"

"No."

"Would you happen to know if Mr. Orecchio was in last night?"

"I don't know who Mr. Orecchio is."

"The man in 31."

"I don't know him."

"Ma'am, could you please open the door?"

"I don't want to."

"Ma'am, I can come back with a warrant, but it'd be a lot easier …"

"Don't get me in trouble," she said. "I'll open the door, but please don't get me in trouble."

Polly Malloy was wearing a pale green cotton wrapper. The wrapper had short sleeves. Hawes saw the hit marks on her arms the moment she opened the door, and the hit marks explained a great deal about the woman who was Polly Malloy. She was perhaps twenty-six years old, with a slender youthful body and a face that would have been pretty if it were not so clearly stamped with knowledge. The green eyes were intelligent and alert, the mouth vulnerable. She worried her lip and held the wrapper closed about her naked body, and her fingers were long and slender, and the hit marks on her arms shouted all there was to shout.

"I'm not holding," she said.

"I didn't ask."

"You can look around if you like."

"I'm not interested," Hawes said.

"Come in," she said.

He went into the apartment. She closed and locked the door behind him.

"I don't want trouble," she said. "I've had enough trouble."

"I won't give you any. I only want to know about the man down the hall."

"I know somebody got shot. Please don't get me involved in it."