Gilligan turned an interesting shade of purple, and Rosenblatt looked as if he was biting his tongue. Fortunately, a large, stolid uniformed policeman—patrolman?—came in to report, so Daisy didn’t discover the limits of her power. She listened as she munched.
“Whole building’s been combed, sir, roof to basement. Ain’t nobody that don’t have a good reason to be here.”
“Whassa doorman say?” asked Gilligan.
“Doormen, Sergeant. There’s two main entrances, on the Avenue and Broadway. They say nobody’s been let to leave since the first patrolman got here after the homicide was phoned in. But gen‘rally they don’t make a note of everyone that comes in and don’t take no notice of them going out, ’specially at lunchtime. It’s a commercial building, see, not like one of them fancy apartment buildings that no stranger gets in without they buzz the residents.”
“I know it’s a commercial building,” Gilligan snapped.
“And then there’s the doors from the lobby to the shops on the street level. They got outside doors, too. We talked to all the shop clerks, but there’s people going in and out alia time, specially in the lunch hour. They don’t notice’em ’less they looks like they’re gonna buy sumpin or pinch sumpin.”
The sergeant groaned. “What about the elevator attendants? Someone gotta of seen sumpin!”
“Seems three of ‘em goes unofficially off duty between the lunch rush out and the lunch rush in. Poker in the basement, I reckon. They ain’t none of ’em noticed nuttin outta the way, ’cepting the old buzzard what the stiff fell on toppa his elevator.”
“And what did he see?” asked Rosenblatt.
“The stiff on toppa his elevator, sir.”
The D.A.’s mouth twitched, whether in amusement or irritation Daisy couldn’t tell. “The stairs start at the second-floor level,” he said. “So our fugitive must’ve taken the elevator down to the ground, so one of the men must’ve seen him.”
“There’s service and emergency stairs from first to second, sir. I guess he musta took ’em. The doors ain’t locked.”
“They wouldn’t be,” Rosenblatt sighed. “You took the name and address of everyone in the building that doesn’t work here? And where they claim to have been when Carmody was shot?”
“Yessir. Detective O’Rourke’s got the dope.”
“O.K., we’ll try to get a decent description of the guy that was seen running off, then we’ll need—lessee—make it four men to go round again. The rest of you can go for now.”
“Figure we’ll need more’n four, sir,” grunted Gilligan. “Or it’ll take all day.”
It was the first unmistakable sign Daisy had seen that the detective was not happy to have the District Attorney’s Officesupervising his investigation. She wondered just what Rosenblatt’s duties were in such a case. There was no equivalent in England to his position.
Rosenblatt conceded. “O.K., O.K., Sergeant, however many you need. Now, Mrs. Fletcher, if you’ve quite finished your sandwich, let’s hear what you have to tell us about Carmody’s death.”
Daisy swallowed the last bite and followed it with a draught of strong black, lukewarm coffee. Other than Alec’s presence, the one thing in the world she wanted was a hot cup of tea to fortify her for the interrogation.
5
Whenever Alec was forced by circumstances beyond his control to take evidence from Daisy, he always started by insisting that she give him only facts, not her speculations. He always ended up taking her comments and theories into account, if not counting on them, but Daisy suspected pure conjecture would not go down well with Rosenblatt and Gilligan.
“Where would you like me to begin?” she asked.
Gilligan sighed heavily.
“At the beginning?” suggested Rosenblatt, not without irony.
“But is the beginning when Mr. Thorwald and I approached the lifts—elevators—and saw Carmody …”
“Fine!” said Gilligan.
“ … or when I heard him yesterday,” Daisy persisted, “arguing in the room next door?”
“Next door?”
“At the hotel where I’m staying.”
The sergeant was incredulous. “Carmody was in the next room?!”
