Mason said, “He probably lives here in the neighborhood. I’ve got the back door open, Della. I’m going in.”
“Don’t you think we’d better call it off, Chief?”
“No. I only want to give the place a quick once-over. That old man has probably forgotten all about you by this time.”
She said in a whisper, “I don’t forget that easily.”
“Okay. Sit tight. You hadn’t better go back to the curb. Your friend might have another errand to run. If he saw you crossing from the curb to the door for the second time, he’d get suspicious. Just stand here in the shadows of the porch. If anyone comes along, be ringing the bell. Remember the signals. I want to know when anyone comes along the street. Don’t get rattled. I may even have to turn on the lights.”
“Just what are you looking for?” she asked.
Mason dismissed the question with a wave of his hand, and once more retraced his steps to the rear of the house. Back inside the kitchen, he debated whether to leave the back door unlocked, but finally decided to release the catch and let the spring lock remain in position.
His flashlight showed him a conventional kitchen. Stale smells of ancient cooking clung to the woodwork. The linoleum was worn almost through in front of the kitchen sink and in front of the stove, the places which would naturally receive the most wear.
The icebox was electric, and the modern freshness of its white enamel stood out against the darker finishings of the kitchen. It gave the impression of having been recently installed.
Mindful of the story of the nocturnal cat, Mason opened the icebox door. As he did so, an electric light flashed on, illuminating the immaculate white of the interior.