He bent down to inspect the lock, then took out a ring of keys and carefully selected one. It went in but would not turn the bolt. He tried another. The lock clicked and he stepped into a dark, musty room. He closed the door quietly, then went across to double windows and raised the shades a foot from the bottom. Enough light came in to reveal a primly ordered living-room. The furnishings were scant and worn. A long dark table against the wall was centered with a small reading lamp and decorated with painted sea shells and other bric-a-brac.
He looked around for an ash tray, but could find nothing to indicate that the occupant of the small apartment was a smoker. He took one of the larger sea shells, and after pushing the others about in careless disorder, carried it over and set it on the floor beside one of the chairs. He dumped the handful of cigarette stubs into it and crushed several of them against the clean pink sides, lit a cigarette and puffed steadily.
While he waited for ashes to form, he lit half a dozen matches, letting each one burn down about halfway before dropping them into the shell. He shook ashes in on top of the mess and continued to smoke furiously as he walked around and moved small things out of place. In the kitchenette he took a glass from an immaculate cabinet, ran water into it, emptied the water into the sink and turned the glass down on the drainboard.
Back in the living-room he crushed out his cigarette in the shell and lit another. He went through an open door into a small bedroom which was as neat and precisely arranged as the living-room had been. He lay down on the silken comforter, wriggled around and dragged out a pillow which he bunched up under his head. He let a few cigarette ashes fall on the comforter, then got up and went to the clothes closet.
He grinned when he found a large, empty cardboard hat-box on a shelf. He took it down, went to the bureau and rummaged through one of the long drawers and found an old newspaper which was used for a lining on the rough bottom of the drawer.
He wrapped the newspaper around the empty hatbox and with the package prominently showing in his arm went to the front door and inched it open cautiously. The Negro cleaning woman was singing in a deep resonant voice, but the words were indistinct.
He opened the door wider and thrust his head out to look down the hall. It was empty. The singing was coming from the interior of the second apartment to the left.
An ornate bridge lamp standing near the door caught his eye, one of the modern indirect lamps with a heavy glass reflector and a three-way bulb. He left the door standing open and backed up against the lamp, gave it a violent shove, and it fell to the floor with a shattering crash.
He heard a shriek from the second apartment to the left as he ran out and down the hall. The Negress burst out to confront him, her eyes rolling. She raised the dustmop threateningly and exclaimed, “Fo’ de Lawd’s sake, whut—” Shayne ran past her, hugging the package tightly in his arm, his free hand doubled into a swinging fist. The Negress shrank back against the wall moaning.
A shrill voice called from the hall below, “What’s the matter up there, Mandy?”