“We’re making the rounds, Mr. Aland,” Purley said, “and we couldn’t leave you out. Now you can go back to sleep. As for trying to frame you—”
He stopped because the door shut.
“You didn’t tell me,” Loftus complained, “that Aland had already fixed it for a reaction.”
“No, I thought I’d wait and see. One to go.” He headed for the stairs.
The top-floor hall had had someone’s personal attention. It was no bigger than the others, but it had a nice clean tan-colored runner, and the walls were painted the same shade and sported a few small pictures. Purley went to the rear door instead of the front, and we made room for Loftus and Bootsy by flattening against the wall. When Loftus knocked footsteps responded at once, approaching the door, and it swung wide open. This was the painter, Ross Chaffee, and he was dressed for it, in an old brown smock. He was by far the handsomest of the tenants, tall, erect, with artistic wavy dark hair and features he must have enjoyed looking at.
I had ample time to enjoy them too as he stood smiling at us, completely at ease, obeying Purley’s prior instructions not to speak. Bootsy was also at ease. When it became quite clear that no blood was going to be shed, Purley asked, “You know the dog, don’t you, Mr. Chaffee?”
“Certainly. He’s a beautiful animal.”
“Pat him.”
“With pleasure.” He bent gracefully. “Bootsy, do you know your master’s gone?” He scratched behind the black ears. “Gone forever, Bootsy, and that’s too bad.” He straightened. “Anything else? I’m working. I like the morning light.”
“That’s all, thanks.” Purley turned to go, and I let Loftus and Bootsy by before following. On the way down the three flights no one had any remarks.