Death in The Life by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Page B

smile.
    “Oh, come along. You don’t have to pretend with me. You’ve no place else you want to go or you wouldn’t be here.”
    So they walked down Ninth Avenue, Mrs. Ryan setting the gait that had long ago been settled on her by two dogs. Julie was well aware that they would be passing Pete’s building, a more persuasive circumstance than having a beer with Mrs. Ryan. She would not have gone that way alone… pride’s thin knuckles… but now she was carried along by a fate there was no point in resisting.
    “What was the other dog’s name?” Julie asked.
    “Hans. Hans and Fritz. I named them after the Katzen-jammer Kids.”
    Who else?
    It was not quite ten o’clock and yet the block in which they walked was all but deserted. Farther downtown there was considerable activity, and the few cars passing Julie and Mrs. Ryan soon slowed down to a crawl, then a halt. As the two women moved forward, traffic backed up to meet them. People crowded the sidewalk. Whatever was happening, the police were in its midst, the prowl car light bubbles whirling. A precinct car raced by and opened its siren. Unable to get through, the driver mounted the sidewalk and scattered the crowd. Julie took Mrs. Ryan’s arm and hurried her. She noted the building numbers.
    “It’s near Pete’s. Can’t you hurry, Mrs. Ryan, please?”
    “Oh, my dear. Run on ahead and meet me at McGowan’s.”
    As Julie moved into the crowd, an ambulance pulled out and away, its siren screaming. Julie kept asking what had happened, but no one heard or answered. Like her, everyone else was trying to snake in closer. The police had joined hands and forced the people back. Julie found herself surrounded by a group of weird, giggling, squealing women, jeweled and wildly made up and trying to keep together. Julie was jostled among them, their bodies as hard as telephone poles. Transvestites. The air now crackled with the garble of police communication. Julie made it through to the sawhorses in front of the building. 741.
    “Stay back of the barricade, lady. This isn’t a goddamn carnival.”
    “I’ve got a friend who lives in there,” Julie tried.
    “Then use the telephone.”
    The word “murder” went through the crowd.
    “Who?” Julie kept trying.
    She grabbed the arm of one of the cops and hung on. “Please listen to me!” She felt as sure as of anything in her life that something had happened to Pete.
    The officer looked round to the doorway crowded with cops. “Russo! Talk with this girl, will you?” he shouted. He let Julie through.
    A squarish man in plain clothes intercepted her. “I’m Detective Russo,” he said.
    “I just want to know… Pete Mallory lives here. He was supposed to be at the theater tonight and last night and nobody knows why he didn’t show up.”
    “We don’t know the identity of the victim, miss,” Russo said. “Let’s see if your friend’s been checked out.” He guided her into the narrow vestibule and shone his flashlight over the row of names on the mail panel. Certain of them were chalked, including that of Peter Mallory. “He isn’t answering his bell if he’s home. Do you know anyone else in the building?”
    “I don’t think so.” She couldn’t make her eyes focus on the names.
    Russo said, “Does the name Rita Morgan mean anything to you?”
    The whole scene blurred. Julie caught herself just short of passing out.

12
    “I ’M ALL RIGHT,” JULIE kept saying. “I’m going to be fine in a minute.” She was sitting on the steps, graffiti running crazily up and down the yellow wall alongside her. She breathed deeply of the inhalant Russo held to her nose. It brought the tears to her eyes. The detective rubbed her hands.
    “Feel better now?”
    “I’m okay.”
    “Get her into a squad car. We can talk there,” another man said.
    “Yes, sir.” Then to Julie, to whom he offered his hand: “How are the legs?”
    Julie pulled herself up. The legs trembled, but held.
    With Russo and the