“WHO’S NEXT?” PARRISH asked.
“Terry Porter is listed as living on Beverley Street and that should be just on the corner. We can go from his abode over to Masefield, who is on McCaul Street.”
“Can we walk? I hate trying to park that bloody car. It would be easier to dock a battleship.”
I was getting fed up with splashing around in inhospitable weather, but I didn’t protest. The police car was not exactly a smooth ride. To compare it to the trot of a lame mule was to do that animal a disservice.
We walked briskly and number eighty-four Beverley was indeed just south of the corner. The house could have been mistaken for a shed it was so small, wedged between a set of apartments on one side and a dilapidated house on the other. There was a tiny porch in front that looked as torn up as a battlefield. Parrish went up first, I followed carefully behind. He knocked hard on the door.
There was no response. He was about to pound again when the door opened.
“Got here as fast as I could, mate. Did you think I was sitting behind the door waiting in anticipation?”
The speaker was a young man, dark-haired and lightly bearded.
Parrish went for a polite mode. “Beg pardon, sir. I’m Detective Parrish and this is Miss Frayne. I wonder if we could ask you a few questions concerning an investigation we’re conducting.”
“Did Mrs. Chandler lose her dog again?”
“No. More serious than that. This is an investigation into a homicide.”
The rain had increased its tempo. “Do you mind if we come and chat?” Parrish asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do mind. My mother is ill and she’s sleeping. Just a minute.”
He stepped back into the house and reached for a waterproof. Pulling it over his shoulders, he came onto the porch.
“Who’s dead and why do you want to talk to me?”
“I understand you were employed at Superior Ladies’ Clothes shop recently.”
“That’s right.” He gave an exaggerated guffaw and slapped himself on the knee. “Don’t tell me old Rosie finally got what’s been coming to him? Somebody got fed up with being exploited and mistreated? Knocked him on the noggin, did they?”
Parrish glanced over at me. “Would you answer that, Miss Frayne.”
I didn’t know if he’d tossed the ball to me because he was losing his patience or if he wanted to play the old police game of good cop, bad cop. I presumed I was stepping in as bad cop.
“It’s not Mr. Rosenthal who has been murdered, it’s Oscar Klein, the supervisor.”
Porter stared at me. “Too bad.”
“Too bad it’s not Mr. Rosenthal?”
“You got it right, ma’am.”
“We understand Mr. Klein was not well liked by the employees. How did you feel about him?”
For answer, Porter kicked the lintel. “Might as well ask me what I feel about this piece of wood. Nothing. I don’t care one way or the other. I wasn’t there long enough to have an opinion.”
He made motions to return into the house. “If that’s all you want, I’m going back inside.”
“One question, Mr. Porter. Would you mind telling us where you were last evening between seven and eight o’clock?”
He made an exaggerated gesture. This time as if he were pondering the question. “I don’t have a lot of appointments these days. I believe I was here in the house with my mother. I think we were listening to the wireless together.”
“And she will verify that?”
“Of course. But you’re not going to ask her tonight. She’s just fallen asleep.” He might have been talking about a baby.
Parrish took over. Good cop now.
“We wouldn’t dream of doing that, sir. All I ask is that sometime tomorrow at your own convenience, you come to the police station so we can get your fingerprints. I’m sure you understand we have to rule out the prints of any employees.”
“Killed in the shop, was he?”
I’d been wondering when he’d ask that question. It was a natural one to ask.
“Yes, he was.”
Porter didn’t follow up with what I considered to be another natural question. How did he die? Perhaps he guessed we couldn’t answer that.
Parrish tipped his hat. “Thank you for your co-operation, sir. If anything occurs to you that might help us with our investigation, please let us know.”
“Your name is again?”
“Parrish. You can reach me at headquarters. We’re over on College Street.”
Porter nodded and stepped back into the house, treating me as if I had suddenly become invisible.
As he closed the door, I called out, “Goodnight.”
He did not respond.
Parrish and I proceeded down the front steps to the street; I almost tripped over a raised board and he caught my arm to steady me.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“As my boss, Mr. Gilmore, has said to me many times, ‘Just because somebody is a nasty chap doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. There are some nice fellows behind bars.’”
Parrish laughed. “Got under your skin, did he?”
“Sorry. I’m afraid he did.”
“It happens. You have to guard against it. It’s what his type wants. Anyway, I didn’t have any particular feeling myself. He was wary. He’s familiar with police protocol. He didn’t seem that shocked to hear about Klein’s death, but that could mean anything. Like he said, sheer indifference.”
“I wonder if he’d have performed a little dance of joy if it had been Mr. Rosenthal?”
“Probably.”
I realized that was the reason Porter had got to me. I liked Saul Rosenthal. I accepted he was many-faceted. Lesson learned.
“Okay. Who’s next?”
“Thomas Masefield lives on McCaul Street. It should be just around the corner.”
“Another corner?”
“Hey, I didn’t put them there.”