Where There's Smoke полностью

“Police,” I said. This was a lie, but I see no harm in lying to anyone, provided it makes things easier for me. I heard a lock being turned. The door opened. The woman standing there was in her early forties, a slatternly brunette wearing a man’s woolen bathrobe belted at the waist, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate the length of her own arms.

“What is it?” she said.

I showed her the gold shield, and she nodded.

“May I come in?” I asked.

She looked me over, and then stepped back from the doorway. “I was just having some breakfast,” she said, and waited for me to move past her into the room, and then closed and locked the door behind me. The room was a kitchen. A table with a white enamel top was against one wall beneath two small windows opening onto the alley. A bottle of Scotch and a glass with ice cubes in it were the only things on the table; the woman apparently planned to drink her breakfast. A flowered curtain was partially drawn back over a doorway that led to a bedroom. I could see one corner of the bed. It had not been made.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Thank you, no.”

“Hate to drink alone,” she said, but this didn’t stop her from pouring a healthy shot of Scotch over the ice cubes and downing it in a single swallow. “You sure?” she said, and poured herself another four fingers.

“Positive.”

“What’s the trouble?” she asked, and sat at the table, and gestured for me to take the other chair. Sipping the second drink, apparently savoring it, she watched me in­tently. Her eyes were green.

“I was wondering if you were here in the apartment all last night,” I said.

“Why? What happened last night?” she asked.

“Routine investigation,” I said. “Were you here?”

“Sure,” she said. “Where else would I be? This is where I live. I’m superintendent of the building here. That’s what I get paid for. To be here. So here’s where I was.”

“Did you happen to hear any traffic in the alley out­side?”

“There’s always traffic in the alley outside,” she said. “Abner has dead bodies coming in every hour of the day and night.”

“Did any bodies come in last night?”

“Who knows? I never pay attention any more. It’s bad enough I know what’s going on out there. How would you like to live next door to a funeral parlor? I see them carrying corpses in there ...” She shivered and took an­other sip of Scotch. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she said.

“No.”

“I do,” she said. “I’m laying in bed some nights, and I think suppose one of them dead bodies takes a notion to go wandering, you know what I mean? If they’re not buried yet, their spirits can go wandering. I lay there in bed, and I get the shakes. I live here all alone, you know. My husband passed on two years ago, good riddance to him. He’s one ghost I never hope to see, I can tell you that. What’s your name?”

“Benjamin Smoke.”

“Mine’s Connie,” she said, and smiled. “Connie Bro­gan.”

“Mrs. Brogan, can you tell me—?”

“Call me Connie,” she said. “Listen, are you sure you wouldn’t like just a short one? I really do hate to drink alone, Ben. Two things I hate to do are drink alone and sleep alone,” she said, and smiled again. “Come on, have a quickie.”

“We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” I said.

“Oh. Sure. Of course,” she said. “Well, you won’t mind if I have just another little one, will you?”

“No, no, go right ahead.”

“Though, boy, I sure do hate to drink alone,” she said, and poured the glass almost half full again. “Here’s look­ing at you, Ben,” she said, and drank, and then asked, “Where’d you get that scar on your cheek?”

“I got into a scrape once.”

“Tough work, police work,” she said. “Nobody appre­ciates the job cops do. You’re a big fellow, though, I’ll bet you can take pretty good care of yourself.”

“Connie, at any time last night, did you—?”

“I like big men,” she said. “The way I see it, men are supposed to be big, and women are supposed to be small. I know I don’t look it in this floppy robe, but actually I’m a very dainty person. You know what my dress size is? Take a guess. Petite. I’ll bet you don’t believe that. That’s because I’m very busty for a woman my size. But petite is what I take. Or, in some dresses, small. But never any­thing bigger. How old do you think I am?”

“I really couldn’t say, Connie.”

‘Take a guess, Ben. Go on.”

“Thirty-four,” I said, reducing my honest estimate by a good ten years.

“Right on the nose!” she said. “You ought to get a job at one of them amusement parks, where they guess peo­ple’s ages and weight. How much do you think I weigh? Never mind looking at my bust, because that’ll throw you off. I weigh one hundred and two pounds, what do you think of that? I’m five feet three inches tall and I weigh a hundred and two pounds, which is just about perfect for my size.”

“What I’m interested in finding out,” I said, “is whether—”

“Relax, Ben,” she said. “You’re a conscientious man, I admire that, but don’t press so hard. What is it you want to know?”

“Did you hear any traffic outside last night?”