The Black Door Read Online Free PDF

street. Following his gesture, I noticed a red Porsche coupe, parked on the opposite side of the street. A crime lab technician was inside the car, dusting the dashboard for fingerprints. A uniformed officer stood on either side of the car and, at a distance, stood the inevitable bystanders, numbering perhaps a half dozen.
    Now Ramsey pointed down the passageway. Larsen wasn’t following the gesture, but instead stood with hands in his pockets, staring down at the sidewalk. Now Carruthers added something. Larsen looked up, as if questioning the detective. Carruthers looked puzzled, then faintly defensive. Finally he shrugged, looked away, and seemed to pout slightly. It was a familiar tableau. Larsen, the commanding officer, was getting briefed on the crime and the investigation’s progress. Soon he would assign the officers their duties. Then, undoubtedly, he and Ramsey, and perhaps Carruthers, would go together to Larsen’s chosen command post, probably the apartment behind the black door.
    “Looks like we’re the first ones,” Campion said softly. “I’m surprised.” Then, in amendment, “Oh, oh.”
    I looked around, following his gaze. Dan Kanter was making his way toward us. It always amused me to see Kanter walk for any distance. He seemed to resent the necessity for propelling his awkward bulk from one place to another. As he came up to us, I looked at the sky. It was clearing. I wished I’d left my raincoat in the car.
    “What’s doing?” Kanter asked, puffing from the exertion of his half-block walk.
    “A double-header,” Campion replied.
    “Any statement yet?”
    “Not even a captain’s smile.” Campion pointed up to the red Porsche. “Apparently that belongs to someone involved.” He pointed down to the black door. “Apparently that’s the apartment.” And, as we watched, the black door opened. Two men from the crime lab came out, carrying their equipment. They approached the group of detectives, respectfully standing on its fringes. And now, finally, the group broke up. Predictably, four of the detectives walked briskly away, to begin the long, tedious questioning of possible witnesses. Making his way through the small crowd of onlookers, one of the detectives paused as an elderly woman plucked urgently at his sleeve. The woman wore a frowzy housecoat and a pair of men’s carpet slippers. In spite of the clearing skies she clutched at a cheap plastic umbrella, which the detective had to dodge as she talked urgently up into his impassive face. Patiently he nodded, took out his notebook, and wrote something down. Then, disengaging himself, he moved away.
    The investigation had begun.
    After talking with the crime lab men, Larsen and Ramsey started down the passageway. Carruthers turned to us.
    “The Captain says to stick around for ten, fifteen minutes. There’s a few things he wants to clear up before he talks to you.”
    Campion grabbed Carruthers’ arm as the detective tried to turn away.
    “Is the girl Robert Grinnel’s daughter?” he asked.
    “Who’s David Pastor?” I said.
    “When was it committed?” Kanter asked.
    Impatiently, Carruthers shook us off. “I already told you—the Captain’ll talk to you in ten, fifteen minutes. And that’s all I can tell you.” He walked away, following his two superiors. Obviously, he’d had his orders concerning the press.
    At that moment I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my photographer: a pool man named Caselli, a young, faintly insolent, fairly competent photographer who seemed to dislike reporters on principle. For my last two assignments, I’d drawn Caselli. Wondering whether the city editor had decided to make us a twosome, I pointed to the Porsche. “That’s the car.” Again I pointed. “The house.” Then, swinging my arm, “That’s the entrance to the apartment, a garden apartment, apparently.”
    Caselli snorted. “Garden apartment. Basement apartment, I’d say.”
    Ignoring the gambit, I said, “Don’t stint on