“Of course not.” I got another five and gave it to him. “I doubt if it will be that long.”
“There’s a parking lot not too far. On the street without a passenger I’ll be solicited.”
“You’ll have a passenger — the dog. I prefer the street. He’s a nice dog. When I return I’ll be reasonable. Let’s see what we can find.”
He pulled the lever and we moved. There are darned few legal parking spaces in all Manhattan at that time of day, and we cruised around several corners before we found one, on Court Street two blocks from Arbor. He backed into it and I got out, leaving the windows down three inches. I told him I’d be back when he saw me, and headed south, turning right at the second corner.
There was no police car at 29 Arbor, and no gathering. That was satisfactory. Entering the vestibule, I pushed the button under Meegan and put my hand on the knob. No click. Pushing twice more and still getting no response, I tried Aland’s button, and that worked. After a short wait the click came, and I shoved the door open, entered, mounted two flights, went to the door, and knocked with authority.
The squeaky voice came through. “Who is it?”
“Goodwin. I was just here with the others. I haven’t got the dog. Open up.”
The door swung slowly to a crack, and then wider. Jerome Aland was still in his gaudy pajamas. “For God’s sake,” he squeaked, “what do you want now? I need some sleep!”
I didn’t apologize. “I was going to ask you some questions when I was here before,” I told him, “but the dog complicated it. It won’t take long.” Since he wasn’t polite enough to move aside, I had to brush him, skinny as he was, as I went in. “Which way?”
He slid past me, and I followed him across to chairs. They were the kind of chairs that made Jewel Jones hate furnished apartments, and the rest of the furniture didn’t help any. He sat on the edge of one and demanded, “All right, what?”