She described a girl who could have been Sue Hambleton. I couldn’t show Sue’s picture; that would have uncovered me if she and Babe heard about it.
I asked the woman what she knew about the McCloors. What she knew wasn’t a great deal: paid their rent on time, kept irregular hours, had occasional drinking parties, quarreled a lot.
“Think they’re in now?” I asked. “I got no answer on the bell.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen either of them since night before last, when they had a fight.”
“Much of a fight?”
“Not much worse than usual.”
“Could you find out if they’re in?” I asked.
She looked at me out of the ends of her eyes.
“I’m not going to make any trouble for you,” I assured her. “But if they’ve blown I’d like to know it, and I reckon you would too.”
“All right, I’ll find out.” She got up, patting a pocket in which keys jingled. “You wait here.”
“I’ll go as far as the third floor with you,” I said, “and wait out of sight there.”
“All right,” she said reluctantly.
On the third floor, I remained by the elevator. She disappeared around a corner of the dim corridor, and presently a muffled electric bell rang. It rang three times. I heard her keys jingle and one of them grate in a lock. The lock clicked. I heard the doorknob rattle as she turned it.