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creaking, and then a woman's voice asking, "What is it?" They heard footsteps approaching the door, and then someone fumbled with the police lock on the inside, and the heavy steel bar clattered when it was dropped to the floor. The door opened a crack.
    "What do you want?" the voice said.
    "Police. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
    "At this time of the morning? Jesus Christ, can't it wait?"
    "Afraid it can't."
    "Well, what's the matter? There a burglar in the building?"
    "No. We'd just like to ask you some questions. You're Frank Clarke, aren't you?"
    "Yeah." Clarke paused. "Let me see your badge."
    Carella reached into his pocket for the leather case to which his shield was pinned. He held it up to the crack in the door.
    "I can't see nothing," Clarke said. "Just a minute."
    "Who is it?" the woman asked.
    "The cops," Clarke mumbled. He stepped away from the door, and then a light flashed inside the apartment. He came back to the door. Carella held up the badge again.
    "Yeah, okay," Clarke said. "What do you want?"
    "You own a .45, Clarke?"
    "What?"
    "A .45. Do you own one?"
    "Jesus, is that what you want to know? Is that what you come banging on the door for in the middle of the night? Ain't you guys got any sense at all? I got to go to work in the morning."
    "Do you have a .45, or don't you?"
    "Who said I had one?"
    "Never mind who. How about it?"
    "Why do you want to know? I been here all night."
    "Anybody to swear for that?"
    Clarke's voice lowered. "Hey, look, fellows, I got somebody with me, you know what I mean? Look, give me a break, will you?"
    "What about the gun?"
    "Yeah, I got one."
    "A .45?"
    "Yeah. Yeah, it's a .45."
    "Mind if we take a look at it?"
    "What for? I've got a permit for it."
    "We'd like to look at it anyway."
    "Hey, look, what the hell kind of a routine is this, anyway? I told you I got a permit for the gun. What did I do wrong? Whattya want from me, anyway?"
    "We want to see the .45," Bush said. "Get it."
    "You got a search warrant?" Clarke asked.
    "Never mind the crap," Bush said. "Get the gun."
    "You can't come in here without a search warrant. And you can't bulldoze me into gettin' the gun, either. I don't want to get that gun, then you can whistle."
    "How old's the girl in there?" Bush asked.
    "What?"
    "You heard me. Wake up, Clarke!"
    "She's 21, and you're barkin' up the wrong tree," Clarke said. "We're engaged."
    From down the hall, someone shouted, "Hey, shut up, will-ya? For Christ's sake! Go down to the poolroom, you want to talk!"
    "How about letting us in, Clarke?" Carella asked gently. "We're waking your neighbors."
    "I don't have to let you in noplace. Go get a search warrant."
    "I know you don't, Clarke. But a cop's been killed, and he was killed with a .45, and if I were you I wouldn't play this so goddamn cosy. Now how about opening that door and showing us you're clean? How about it, Clarke?"
    "A cop? Jesus, a cop! Jesus, why didn't you say so? Just a ... just a minute, willya? Just a minute." He moved away from the door. Carella could hear him talking to the woman, and he could hear the woman's whispered answer. Clarke came back to the door and took off the night chain. "Come on in," he said.
    There were dishes stacked in the kitchen sink. The kitchen was a six-by-eight rectangle, and adjoining that was the bedroom. The girl stood in the bedroom doorway. She was a short blonde, somewhat dumpy. She wore a man's bathrobe. Her eyes were puffed with sleep, and she wore no makeup. She blinked her eyes and stared at Carella and Bush as they moved into the kitchen.
    Clarke was a short man with bushy black brows and brown eyes. His nose was long, broken sharply in the middle. His lips were thick, and he needed a shave badly. He was wearing pajama pants and nothing else. He stood bare-chested and bare-footed in the glare of the kitchen light. The water tap dripped its tattoo onto the dirty dishes in the sink.
    "Let's see the gun," Bush said.
    "I got a permit for it," Clarke answered.