Part 31 (1/2)
Brent Taber stood in the shelter of a doorway on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and watched an entrance across the street. He had been there for over an hour.
Another hour pa.s.sed and Taber s.h.i.+fted from one aching foot to the other as a man in a blue suit emerged from the entrance and moved off down the street.
When the man had turned a corner, Taber crossed over and looked up at the brownstone. It was a perfect place to hide--one of the many rooming houses in the city where, if you paid your rent and kept your peace, no one cared who you were or where you came from.
Not even, Taber reflected, if you had been born in a laboratory and had come from someplace among the stars.
He climbed the steps of the brownstone and tried the k.n.o.b. The door opened. He went inside and found himself in a drab, dark hall furnished with an umbrella stand, a worn carpet, and a table spread with mail.
There was a bell on the table. He tapped it and, after a lazy length of time, a shapeless woman came through a door on the right and regarded him with no great show of cordiality.
”Nothing vacant, mister. Everything I've got is rented.”
”I wasn't looking for a room. I'm just doing a little checking.”
”My license is okay,” the woman said belligerently. ”The place is clean and orderly.”
”That's not what I'm checking about. There's been some counterfeit money pa.s.sed in this neighborhood and we're trying to trace it down.”
The woman had a p.r.o.nounced mustache that quivered at this news.
”Counterfeit! My roomers are honest.”
”I'm sure they are. But some people carry counterfeit money without knowing it. Do they all pay in cash?”
”Only two of them.”
”Men or women?”
”One girl--Katy Wynn.”
”Where does she work?”
”Down in Wall Street.”
”Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around Times Square.”
”The other's a man--quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no counterfeiter.”
Taber took a forward step. ”What's his room number?”
”Six--on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out.”
”Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're just checking for sources.”
Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she did not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the stairs.
The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest--the room was ordinary in every sense.
But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent.