Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 34

I RANG BINKY’S BUZZER A FEW MORE times, just to be on the safe side. He still didn’t answer.

“Okay, he’s not home,” I said to Abby, who was busy reading the other names on the mailboxes. “Let’s buzz somebody on the top floor to let us in.” Remembering how Abby had tricked Willy into letting us enter Gray’s building, I figured we should use the same buzzer tactic again. “Since Binky lives on the first floor,” I said, “we might be able to get inside his apartment before the person we buzz on the fifth floor ever gets suspicious or comes downstairs to look for us.”

“Good plan,” Abby said. “Let’s try Mrs. Lettie Forrest in 5C.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. Only what should I say when she answers? Should I pretend to be a messenger of some kind? Or say I have a telegram? Or maybe I should-”

“Oh, hush! I’ll do it!” Abby nudged me aside and pushed the buzzer for 5C without hesitation. “You always make such a

tsimmis!”

“Yes, who’s there?” came a tinny female voice over the intercom.

“Is this Mrs. Lettie Forrest?” Abby asked, answering the woman’s question with a question.

“Yes,” the woman tentatively replied. “Who’s this?”

“I’m from the flower shop down the street, ma’am. I have a delivery for you.”

“Flowers? For me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Should I bring them up?”

“Why, yes, of course!” she said, buzzing us in.

That was quick.

We pushed through the humming door and scurried across the tiny foyer to the apartment marked 1A. I gave the doorknob a hefty twist, but it was locked.

“Oh, no!” I whispered. “It’s locked!”

Abby propped her hands on her hips and gave me a weary look. “Oh, really?” she croaked. “What a shock! It’s so unfair the way people keep locking their doors these days! I don’t know what this world is coming to.”

“Shhhhh, keep your voice down.”

“I didn’t bring my purse,” she said, ignoring my plea for volume control. “Do you have a nail file or a bobby pin?”

“Yes, but those things don’t work! I’ve tried them in the past so I know. They only work in the movies.”

“Hand ’em over,” she said, holding out her palm. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

I opened my purse and fished out the items. Then, while Abby was down on her knees wriggling the hairpin in the keyhole and trying to trip the latch with the nail file, I rooted through the rest of the stuff in my clutch bag, looking for something else-

anything else-that might be useful. “Hey, how about this?” I said, removing an empty plastic photo holder from my new red leather Dale Rogers wallet (silly, I know, but they had a half-off sale in Woolworth’s). I held the holder up for her inspection. “I bet this’ll do the trick.”

Abby rose to full height and propped her hands on her hips again. “A piece of plastic?” she scoffed. “You expect to break open a door with a puny piece of plastic? What’s the matter, don’t you have anything stronger? A piece of gum, maybe? Or a Kleenex?”

“Oh, c’mon, Abby! I’m not fooling around! I wrote a clip story for the magazine about a cat burglar who used these things to break into people’s houses at night. No kidding! He told the police how they worked, and he said they were quiet, easy to carry, and practically infallible. I titled the story ‘Plastic-Packing Papa.’ Get it? It’s a play on ‘Pistol-Packing Mama’ and it-”

“Hello, flower girl?” Mrs. Lettie Forrest shouted from the top of the nearby stairwell. “Where are you? Are you coming up? Did you get lost?”

We didn’t answer her, of course.

“Hello?” she called again. “Is anybody down there?”

We remained as quiet as mice-or cat burglars, if you prefer.

Finally, after a couple more calls and ensuing silences, Lettie gave up. She went back inside her apartment and slammed the door.

I had broken out in a nervous sweat, but Abby was giggling. “Poor Lettie,” she said. “When I get home, I’ll send her some daisies. But for now, we’d better get to work, you dig?” She stepped away from the door and made a sweeping gesture toward the lock. “It’s all yours, babe. Give that wallet thingamabob a whirl. Maybe the plastic is magic!”

And believe it or not, it

was. I sank into a squat, eased the stiff plastic picture holder between the lock and the doorjamb, gave it a wiggle and a jiggle and-click!-we were in.

BINKY’S APARTMENT WAS SMALL. VERY, very small. The kitchen was the size of a closet and the living room was so cramped Abby and I had to walk in single file to pass through it. Every piece of furniture in the room-the couch, two chairs, a table, and a television set-was set flush against a wall so as not to take up too much space. There was a separate bedroom, but all it could-and, indeed, did-hold was a small chest of drawers and a single bed.

“I don’t get it,” Abby said. “Binky’s a pretty big guy. How can he stand to live in such a tiny place?”

“I don’t know, but I’m glad he does. It won’t take us long to case the joint.” (Humphrey Bogart or James Cagney, take your pick.)

“Where do we start?” Abby asked. “You said you wanted to look for a couple of things. What things?”

“The murder weapon primarily-a butcher knife, or something like that. Also a stash of bloody clothes and a pair of bloody shoes.”

“Ick!” Abby said, making a face. “The knife I understand-it could be cleaned up and put back in the drawer like nothing ever happened. But why the clothes? If Binky was the murderer, wouldn’t he have gotten rid of anything that had Gray’s blood on it?”

“If he was in his right mind,” I said, “and if he had the right opportunity. But those are two very big ifs.” I thought of my own bloody clothes and sandals, which were still sitting in a bag in the back of my coat closet, needing to be disposed of but totally forgotten until this very moment. “We know from Flannagan that the killer took a shower and changed his clothes before he left Gray’s apartment,” I went on, “and we know from our own firsthand observation that he didn’t leave anything-either the weapon or the gory clothes-at the scene.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So what did he do with them?” I questioned. “Maybe he burned them, or buried them, or tossed them in the East River. Or maybe he was so deranged and charged-up and afraid of getting caught that he ran straight home after the killing and hid the whole kit and caboodle in his apartment, figuring he’d get rid of the stuff after the heat blew over.” (Bogart, definitely Bogart.)

“Okay, okay! I hear you!” Abby said, shushing me up with her dismissive hand gestures. “That’s enough talking. We’re wasting time. You take the kitchen, I’ll start here in the living room.”

“Hey, wait a minute! Why the big rush? You said Binky would be gone all day. There’s no reason to hurry. I think we should take it real slow and do a very careful, thorough search of the premises. This is the only chance we’re ever going to get, and we can’t afford to do a sloppy job. This is really, really important!”

“I dig, I dig!” Abby said (impatiently, as usual). “I’ll crawl like a snail, Gail.” And to prove it she flipped on the living room light, dropped down to her hands and knees on the brown linoleum floor, then crawled across the room and stuck her head under the couch.

Anxious to get started myself, I darted into the minuscule kitchen, yanked open the drawer (there was only one), and started rummaging through the utensils. I found it almost immediately-a big knife with a broad, sharp blade; the kind used to cut up meat. I could easily imagine the large knife dripping with blood and gore, but the plain fact was-as of this minute, and as far as my unaided eye could see-it was clean as a whistle. Having no idea if this was the weapon that killed Gray Gordon, and no reasonable way to make that determination, I decided to leave the knife where it was for the time being and continue searching for real evidence (i.e., something with real blood on it).

I looked through the overhead cabinets lining the walls of the doorless, windowless kitchen, finding nothing but a couple of pots and pans, a can of beans, a box of Hi Ho crackers, three cans of Libby’s fruit cocktail, a box of Wheaties, a jar of Ovaltine, and a motley assortment of dishes and glasses. The cabinet under the sink offered nothing but a blue dishrag and a giant-size bottle of Glim dishwashing liquid.

Probably good for cleaning bloody knives, I mused. The oven was empty, and-except for a bottle of milk and a half-eaten can of fruit cocktail-the midget refrigerator was, too.

“I found a knife,” I said, returning to the living room, “but I don’t know if… Abby? Where are you?”

“In the bathroom!” she hollered, which was totally unnecessary since the apartment was so small I would have heard a whisper. “I’m checkin’ out the clothes hamper.”

I walked over to the open door of the bathroom and watched Abby pull a couple of pairs of boxer shorts and a damp bath towel out of a narrow white wicker basket. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, digging around in the hamper like a hobo foraging for food in the trash.

“Is there anything bloody in there?” I asked.

“Not a bloody thing!” she said, sitting upright, brushing a loose lock of hair off her face, then tossing all the stuff on the bathroom floor back into the basket. “This guy is so neat, clean, and organized, all the crap in his medicine cabinet is arranged alphabetically.”

“Really?!” I exclaimed. I could feel my eyes popping in surprise.

“No, Paige! No! That was just a figure of speech-an exaggeration used to illustrate a point. You know, for a writer you’re not too swift.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling embarrassed for a split second, but quickly snapping my attention back to the search. “Did you find anything interesting in the living room, Ab? Anything with blood on it?”

“That’s a big fat

no, Flo!” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “There isn’t a speck of blood in there, or probably anywhere else in this focockta apartment. I knew there wouldn’t be. Binky may be a murderer, but he isn’t stupid.” She stood up from the tub, shoved the hamper back under the sink, and squeezed past me into the living room. “I did find this, though,” she said, snatching something that looked like a manuscript up off the table and handing it over for my inspection. “It’s the Cat on a Hot Tin Roof script, and the pages have been turned and folded and fondled so much they’re soft as cotton.”

I flipped through the well-worn script, noting several brownish splash stains throughout (Ovaltine, I figured, not blood), and one bright red PROPERTY OF THE ACTORS STUDIO stamp on the back (ink, undoubtedly ink). “The condition of this script shows Binky studied it long and hard,” I said, “which supports my theory that he wanted Gray’s job, but doesn’t prove that he murdered him. For definite proof of that, we have to find something here with blood on it-either Gray’s type O, or the killer’s type A.”

“Then we might as well blow this joint right now,” Abby declared. “We’re never going to find any evidence of blood in this spick-and-span pad. Binky’s way too sharp and clean for that. And I don’t think he’s the killer, anyway! You know who I think did it? Aunt Doobie, that’s who! If he was Gray’s boyfriend like you say, then

he was the one who did Gray in. You, of all people, should know the statistics, Paige. It’s almost always the spouse or the lover.”

“The key word here is

almost,” I said, with a sniff. “Besides, I’ve now come to the definite conclusion that Aunt Doobie is innocent.”

“What?!” she shrieked. “How did you do that? Did you dig up some new clues you didn’t tell me about?”

“No, I just remembered a big clue I’d forgotten about,” I admitted, staring sheepishly at the floor, so ashamed of my faulty memory and slow skills of detection I considered looking for a new job. Something in retail, maybe. Or advertising.

Abby threw her hands up in the air. “

Oy! When the hell are you planning tell me about it? Next Christmas?!”

“Oh, all right, here’s the scoop,” I said, looking up from the floor but unable to look her in the eye. “Remember when I went to the Mayflower Hotel the day after the murder and knocked on the door of room 96 looking for Aunt Doobie? Well, he came to the door naked, with a towel wrapped around his waist. His neck, chest, shoulders, back, legs, and arms were completely bare, and-as I saw at the time, but didn’t recall until today-completely free of any scratches or slashes. He had no wounds of any kind. So he couldn’t have been in a big fight with Gray or shed any of his own blood at the scene. Get the picture? Verdict: not guilty.”

“Okay, so that acquits Aunt Doobie,” Abby said, quickly accepting my conclusion and graciously forgoing the opportunity to scold me for my slack detective work. “But it

doesn’t automatically convict Binky. We’ve still got Blackie and Baldy to deal with, and-if you ask me, Bea-they’re far more likely suspects. I bet they were both down by the river the night of the fireworks. I bet Blackie bonked you on the head and then escaped in Baldy’s limousine.”

“That’s possible,” I said, “but even if it’s true it may have nothing to do with the murder. I’ve been thinking about that night a lot, and there’s no reason to conclude that the person who hit me on the head is the same person who killed Gray.”

“Maybe not, but-”

“And here’s another reason I think Binky is the killer,” I barreled on, anxious to wrap up my explanations and get on with our search. “Last evening, when I met him at the Actors Studio and sat in on his audition, the heat wave was still going strong. The temperature was 96 degrees, and the Studio wasn’t air-conditioned. It was so hot all the other male students were wearing light T-shirts, yet Binky had on a heavy long-sleeved shirt buttoned up tight at the neck and the cuffs. I didn’t guess why he was dressed that way then, but now I think I know. I believe he was hiding the cuts and gashes he got while Gray was fighting for his life.”

Abby and I stood in silence for a moment while she thought over what I’d said. Then, suddenly, her face turned flame red and her eyes flashed hot in anger. “The bastard,” she muttered under her breath, lips curling up over her teeth like a growling dog’s. “Let’s raid the bedroom, Paige. I’m out for blood now.”