He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the knob. The door opened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.
There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length of time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded him with no great show of cordiality.
"Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented."
"I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking."
"My license is okay," the woman said belligerently. "The place is clean and orderly."
"That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit money passed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down."
The woman had a pronounced mustache that quivered at this news. "Counterfeit! My roomers are honest."
"I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money without knowing it. Do they all pay in cash?"
"Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around Times Square."
"The other's a man--quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no counterfeiter."
Taber took a forward step. "What's his room number?"
"Six--on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out."
"Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're just checking for sources."
Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she did not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the stairs.
The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest--the room was ordinary in every sense.
But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent. There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized suitcase, stood on end.
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.