And jammed neatly down behind it was the body of Les King. His throat had been cut.
Brent Taber stared down into the closet for what seemed like an interminable time. His eyes were bleak and his mouth was grim and stiff as he passed a slow hand along his jaw.
He took a long, backward step and closed his eyes for a moment as though hoping the whole improbable mess would go away. But it was still there when he opened them again.
He turned, went downstairs, and took the receiver off the phone on the wall by the front door.
The shapeless landlady came out again. She scowled at Taber. "What are you doing here?"
He regarded her with a kind of affectionate weariness. "Have you got a dime, lady?"
Gaping, she pawed into her apron pocket and handed him a coin.
"Thanks much." He dialed. "Is Captain Abrams there?"
There was a wait, during which Brent Taber asked the oddly bemused landlady: "Are you afraid of the dead?"
But before she could decide whether she was or not, Taber turned to the phone. "Captain?.... That's right, Brent Taber ... No, right, here in Manhattan. There's been a little trouble. You'd better come over personally."