Cotton Hawes had fallen in love with her the moment she opened the door of her Jefferson Avenue apartment, even though she was not dressed in a manner that was conducive to falling in love. She was, in fact, dressed like a slob.
She was wearing dungarees, the bottoms of which were wet to the knee. She wore a man’s dress shirt, the tails hanging over the dungarees, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. She had bright-green eyes, and her full mouth was on the edge of panic, and she didn’t at all look like an extortionist’s mistress, whatever an extortionist’s mistress looks like.
She opened the door, and immediately said, “Thank God you’re here! It’s this way. Come with me.”
Hawes followed her through a luxurious living room, and then into an equally luxurious bedroom, and then through that into a bathroom that-at the moment-had all the charm of a small swimming pool.
“What took you so long?” Nancy said. “A person could drown by the time-”
“What’s the trouble?” he asked.
“I told you on the phone. I can’t turn off the shower. Something’s stuck. The whole damn apartment’ll float away unless we turn it off.”
Hawes took off his jacket. Nancy glanced at the shoulder holster and the sturdy butt of the.38 protruding from the leather.
“Do you always carry a gun?” she asked.
“Always,” he said.
She nodded soberly. “I always suspected plumbing was a hazardous profession.”
Hawes had already reached into the tub. Grasping the knobs on the fixtures, he said, “They’re stuck.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Did you call a plumber?”
“If you’re not the plumber,” she said, “you entered this apartment under false pretenses.”
Hawes tugged at the stubborn fixtures. “I never said I was a plumber. I’m getting wet.”
“What are you?”
“A cop.”
“You can get right out of the bathroom,” Nancy said.
“Shhh, it’s beginning to turn, I think.”
“You’re supposed to have a warrant before-”
“There it goes,” Hawes said. “Now all I’ve got to-OW!” He pulled his hand back and began shaking it.
“What’s the matter?”
“I must have turned off the cold water. I burned myself.”
Steam was beginning to pour into the small bathroom.
“Well, do something,” Nancy said. “For God’s sake, you’ve made it worse.”
“If I can turn up that nozzle…” Hawes said, half to himself. He reached up and directed the spray of hot water toward the far tile wall. “There.” And then he began struggling with the hot water knob. “It’s giving,” he said. “How’d you manage to get them stuck?”
“I was going to take a shower.”
“In your dungarees?”
“I put these on after I called the plumber.”
“There it goes,” Hawes said. He twisted the knob, and the water suddenly stopped. “Phew.”
Nancy looked at him. “You’re soaking wet,” she said.
“Yes.” Hawes grinned.
She studied him, and then reluctantly said, “Well, take off your shirt. You can’t walk around all dripping like that. I’ll get you something to wear.”
“Thanks,” Hawes said. Nancy left the bathroom. He unstrapped the holster and laid it across the top of the toilet tank. Then he pulled his shirt out of his trousers and unbuttoned it. He was pulling his tee shirt over his head when Nancy came back.
“Here,” she said. “It’ll probably be small for you.” She handed him a pale-blue, long-sleeved sports shirt with the monogram
“Mr. Kramer’s?” Hawes asked, putting on the shirt.
“Yes.” Nancy paused. “That’s an expensive shirt, imported from Italy. But I don’t think he’ll mind your wearing it.”
Hawes put on the shirt and rolled up the sleeves. The shirt was tight across his broad chest, skimpy where his shoulders threatened the luxurious cloth. He picked up his jacket, his wet clothes, and his shoulder rig.
“Give me the clothes,” she said. “I have a dryer.”
“Thanks.”
“You can sit in the living room,” she told him.
“Thanks.”
“There’s whisky in the cabinet.”
“Thanks.”
She went into a small alcove off the kitchen. Hawes went into the living room and sat. He could hear her starting the automatic dryer. She came into the room and stood looking at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Detective Hawes.”
“Have you got a warrant, Mr. Hawes?”
“I only want to ask some questions, Miss O’Hara. I don’t need a warrant for that.”
“Besides, you did fix my shower.” She had a sudden idea. “I better phone the super and tell him to call off the plumber. Excuse me a minute.” She stopped on the way out of the room. “I better change my pants, too. Don’t you want a drink?”
“Not allowed,” Hawes said.
“Oh, bull,” she answered, and left.
Hawes walked around the room. A framed picture of Sy Kramer was on the grand piano. A humidor with six pipes in it rested on a table near one of the easy chairs. The room was a masculine room. He felt quite at home in it, and, curiously, he began to admire the late Sy Kramer’s expensive good taste.
When Nancy returned, she had tucked the man’s shirt into a pair of striped tapered slacks.
“Typical petty officialdom,” she said.
“Huh?”
“The super. I told him not to bother sending the plumber. He said,
“You’re welcome.”
