Sadie When She Died полностью

“But more important,” Davies said, “I got a good walking picture from the footprints on the floor, and I think we can assume it was the man’s usual gait, neither dawdling nor hurried.”

“How can you tell that?” Meyer asked.

“Well, if a man is walking slowly, the distance between his footprints is usually about twenty-seven inches. If he’s running, his footprints will be about forty inches apart. Thirty-five inches apart is the average for fast walking.”

“How far apart were the prints you got?”

“Thirty-two inches. He was moving quickly, but he wasn’t in a desperate hurry. The walking line, incidentally, was normal and not broken.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, draw an imaginary line in the direction the suspect was walking, and that line should normally run along the inner edge of the heelprints. Fat people and pregnant ladies will often leave a broken walking line because they walk with their feet spread wider apart . . . to keep their balance.”

“But this walking line was normal,” Meyer said.

“Right,” Davies said.

“So our man is neither fat nor pregnant.”

“Right. Incidentally, it is a man. The size and type of the shoe, and also the angle of the foot indicate that clearly.”

“Okay, fine,” Meyer said. He did not thus far consider Davies’ information valuable nor even terribly important. They had automatically assumed that anyone burglarizing an apartment would be a man and not a woman. Moreover, according to Carella’s report on the size of the footprint in the sink, it had definitely been left by a man—unless a female Russian wrestler was loose in the precinct. Meyer yawned.

“Anyway, none of this is valuable nor even terribly important,” Davies said, “until we consider the rest of the data.”

“And what’s that?” Meyer asked.

“Well, as you know, the bedroom window was smashed, and the Homicide men at the scene . . .”

“Monoghan and Monroe?”

“Yes, were speculating that the suspect had jumped through the window into the alley below. I didn’t think it would hurt to go downstairs and see if I could get some meaningful pictures.”

“Did you get some meaningful pictures?”

“Yes, I got some pictures of where he must have landed—on both feet, incidentally—and I also got another walking picture and direction line. He moved toward the basement door and into the basement. That’s not the important thing, however.”

“What is the important thing?” Meyer asked patiently.

“Our man is injured. And I think badly.”

“How do you know?”

“The walking picture downstairs is entirely different from the one in the kitchen. The footprints are the same, of course, no question but that the same person left them. But the walking line indicates that the person was leaning quite heavily on the left leg and dragging the right. There are, in fact, no flat footprints for the right foot, only scrape marks where the edges of the sole and heel were pulled along the concrete. I would suggest that whoever’s handling the case put out a physician’s bulletin. If this guy hasn’t got a broken leg, I’ll eat the pictures I took.”

A girl in a green coat was waiting in the lobby. Leaning against the wall, hands thrust deep into the slash pockets of the coat, she turned toward the basement door the instant it opened. Carella and Kling, followed by the red-faced patrolman (who was slightly more red-faced at the moment), came through the doorway and were starting for the street when the girl said, “Excuse me, are you the detectives?”

“Yes?” Carella said.

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry,” the patrolman said. “I just got transferred up here, you know, I ain’t too familiar with all you guys.”

“That’s okay,” Kling said.

“The super told me you were in the building,” the girl said.

“So, like excuse it, huh?” the patrolman said.

“Right, right,” Kling said, and waved him toward the front door.

“You’re investigating the Fletcher murder, aren’t you?” the girl said. She was quite soft-spoken, a tall girl with dark hair and large brown eyes that shifted alternately from one detective to the other, as though searching for the most receptive audience.

“How can we help you, miss?” Carella asked.

“I saw somebody in the basement last night,” she said. “With blood on his clothes.”

Carella glanced at Kling, and immediately said, “What time was this?”

“About a quarter to eleven,” the girl said.

“What were you doing in the basement?”

“My clothes,” the girl said, sounding surprised. “That’s where the washing machines are. I’m sorry, my name is Nora Simonov. I live here in the building.”

“So long, you guys,” the patrolman called from the front door. “Excuse it, huh?”

“Right, right,” Kling said.

“I live on the fifth floor,” Nora said. “Apartment 5A.”

“Tell us what happened, will you?” Carella said.

“I was sitting by the machine, watching the clothes tumble—which is simply fascinating, you know,” she said, and rolled her eyes and flashed a quick, surprising smile, “when the door leading to the backyard opened. The door to the alley. You know the door I mean?”

“Yes,” Carella said.