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“What’s going on, Inspector?” the security officer said.
“Nothing particular,” Wohl said. “You want to raise that thing?”
Louise Dutton’s old yellow Cadillac convertible, the roof now up, was parked three-quarters of the way down the cobblestone street.
When the barrier was raised, Wohl drove slowly down the street and pulled in behind the convertible. Wohl looked around curiously. He hadn’t even known this place was here, although his office was less than a dozen blocks away.
Stockton Place looked, he thought, except for the cars on the street, as it must have looked two hundred years ago, when these buildings had been built.
He got out of the car, then crossed to the nearest doorway. There was no doorbell that he could see, and after a moment, he saw that the doorway was not intended to open; that it was a facade. He backed up, smiled more in amusement than embarrassment, and looked at the doorways to the right and left. There were doorbells beside the doorway on the left.
There were three of them, and one of them read DUTTON.
He saw that the door was slightly ajar, and tried it, and then pushed it open.
There was a small lobby inside. To the right was a shiny mailbox, and more doorbell buttons, these accompanied by a telephone. Beside the mailboxes was a door with a large brass “C” fixed to it, and a holder for a name card. Jerome Nelson.
There were three identical doors against the other wall. They each had identifying signs on them: stairway, elevator, service.
If “C” was the ground floor, Wohl reasoned, “A” would be the top floor. He opened the door marked elevator and found an open elevator behind it. He pushed “A”. A door closed silently, faint music started to play, and the elevator started upward. It stopped, and the door opened and the music stopped. There was another door in front of him, with a lock and a peephole, and a doorbell button. He pushed it and heard the faint ponging of chimes.
“Whoever that is, Jerome,” Louise Dutton said, “send them away.”
Jerome walked quickly and delicately to the elevator door, rose on his toes, and put his eye to the peephole. It was a handsome, rather well dressed, man.
Jerome pulled the door open.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, “but Miss Dutton is not receiving callers.”
“Please tell Miss Dutton that Peter Wohl would like to see her,” Wohl said.
“Just one moment, please,” Jerome said.
He walked into the apartment.
“It’s a very good-looking man named Peter Wohl,” he told Louise Dutton, loud enough for Wohl to hear him. A smile flickered on and off Wohl’s face.
“He’s a policeman,” Louise said, and walked toward the door.
Louise Dutton was wearing a bathrobe, Wohl saw, and then corrected himself, a dressing gown, and holding both a cigarette and a drink.
“Oh, you,” she said. “Hi! Come on in.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Dutton,” Wohl said, politely.
She was half in the bag, Wohl decided. There was something erotic about the way she looked, he realized. Part of that was obviously because he could see her nipples holding the thin material of her dressing gown up like tent poles—it was probably silk, he decided—but there was more to it than that.
“I’m glad that you got home all right,” Wohl said.
“Thank you for that,” Louise said. “I was more upset than I realized, and I shouldn’t have been driving.”
“I just made her take a long soak in a hot tub,” Jerome said. “And I prescribed a stiff drink.” He put out his hand. “I’m Jerome Nelson, a friend of the family.”
“I’m Inspector Peter Wohl,” Wohl said, taking the hand. “How do you do, Mr. Nelson?”
“You certainly, if you don’t mind me saying so, don’t look like a policeman,” Jerome Nelson said.
“That’s nice, if you’re a detective,” Wohl said. “What would you say I do look like?”
