It was a little tricky. Since he was assuming I was one of the Homicide personnel, it wouldn’t do for me to know either too much or too little. It would be risky to mention Jewel Jones, because the cops might not have got around to her at all.
“I’m checking some points,” I told him. “How long has Richard Meegan occupied the apartment below you?”
“Hell, I’ve told you that a dozen times.”
“Not me. I said I’m checking. How long?”
“Nine days. He took it a week ago Tuesday.”
“Who was the previous tenant? Just before him.”
“There wasn’t any. It was empty.”
“Empty ever since you’ve been here?”
“No, I’ve told you, a girl had it, but she moved out about three months ago. Her name is Jewel Jones, and she’s a fine artist, and she got me my job at the night club where I work now.” His mouth worked. “I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to make it nasty, and you’re trying to catch me getting my facts twisted. Bringing that dog here to growl at me — can I help it if I don’t like dogs?”
He ran his fingers, both hands, through his hair. When the hair was messed good he gestured like a night-club performer. “Die like a dog,” he said. “That’s what Phil did, died like a dog. Poor Phil, I wouldn’t want to see that again.”