Conrad looked into a small room that contained a bed, a table, two chairs and a worn rug. At the table sat a large fat man in shirt sleeves. In his mouth he held a dead cigar. Spread out before him on the table was a complicated patience game.
“You’ve got a vacancy on the third floor, haven’t you?” Conrad said. “Miss Coleman’s moved out.”
“Who says so?”
“I’ve just been up there. The room’s empty. Clothes gone. All the little knickknacks that make up a home gone too.”
“Who are you?” the fat man asked.
Conrad flashed his buzzer.
“City police.”
The fat man curled his upper lip into a complacent sneer.
“What’s she been up to?”
“When did she leave?” Conrad asked, leaning against the door post.