Damn it, who killed the woman? W. I. Grabow? Knobby? Lawyer John? Had the murderer and the lover been one and the same? Or had the murderer killed her because he was jealous of the lover, or for an entirely different reason? And where did the jewels fit in? And where did Craig fit in? And where, damnitall, did I fit in?

What I kept fitting in was phone booths, and the next time I tried the Koltnow Gallery a woman answered on the second ring. She sounded older than Denise Raphaelson, and her conversation was less playful. I said I understood she represented Walter Grabow, that I was an old friend and wanted to get in touch.

“Oh, we used to have some paintings of his, though I can’t remember that we ever made a sale for him. He was trying to get together enough grade-A material for a show and it never materialized. How did you know to call us?”

“Gotham Artists’ Guild.”

“Oh, Gag,” she said. “They’ve still got us listed as Wally’s gallery? I’m surprised. He never really caught on with anybody, you know, and then he got involved with graphics and became more interested in printmaking techniques than anything else. And he stopped painting, and I thought that was insane because his forte was his color sense, and here he was wrapping himself up in a straitjacket of detail work. Are you an artist yourself?”

“Just an old friend.”

“Then you don’t want to hear all this. You just want to know where he’s at, as the children say. Hold on a moment.” I held, and after a little while the operator told me to put in another nickel. I dropped a dime in the slot and told her to keep the change. She didn’t even thank me, and then the woman at Koltnow Gallery read off a number on King Street. I couldn’t remember where King Street was at. As the children say.

“King Street.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’re from out of town. Are you?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, King Street is in SoHo, but just barely. It’s one block So of Ho.” She laughed mechanically, as if she used this little play on words frequently and was getting sick of it. “South of Houston, that is.”

“Oh,” I said. I now remembered where King Street was, but she went on to explain just what subways I should take to get there, all that crap, none of which I needed to hear.

“This is the most recent address I have for him,” she said. “I couldn’t swear that he’s still there, but we’ve kept him on our mailing list for invitations to gallery openings and the mail doesn’t come back, so if you write to him the Post Office’ll forward it, but-”

She went on and on. She didn’t have a telephone number listed, but I could look in the phone book, unless of course I’d already done so, and maybe he had an unlisted number, and of course if I went to the King Street address and he wasn’t there I could always check with the super, that was occasionally helpful, and all of this stupid advice that any fourth-grader could have figured out by himself.

The operator cut in again to ask for more money. They’re never satisfied. I started to drop yet another dime in the slot, then came abruptly to my senses. And hung up.

I still had the dime in my hand. I started to put it in my pocket. Then, without any real thought involved, I began making a phone call instead. I dialed Jillian’s apartment, and when a male voice answered I said, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hung up. I frowned, checked the number on the card in my wallet, frowned again, fished out another dime-I still had an ample supply-and dialed once more.

“Hello?”

The same voice. A voice I’d heard often over the years, saying not Hello but Open wider, please.

Craig Sheldrake’s voice.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

Nobody here but us burglars, I thought. And what are you doing there?

Chapter Twelve

King Street lies just below the southern edge of Greenwich Village, running west from Macdougal Street toward the Hudson. SoHo’s a commercial district that’s been turned into artists’ housing, but the stretch of King where Grabow lived had always been primarily residential. Most of the block was given over to spruced-up brownstones four and five stories tall. Here and there an old commercial building newly converted to artists’ lofts reminded me I was south of Houston Street.

Grabow’s building was one of these. It stood a few doors off Sixth Avenue, a square structure of dull-red brick. It was four stories tall but the height of its ceilings put its roofline even with the five-story brownstones on either side. On all four floors the building sported floor-to-ceiling industrial windows extending the full width of the building, an unarguable boon to artists and exhibitionists.

A boon, too, to the veritable jungle of plants on the second floor, a tropical wall of greenery that was positively dazzling. They were soaking up the afternoon sun. The building was on the uptown side of the street so the windows faced south, which was probably terrific for the plants but less desirable for artists, who prefer a north light. On the first and third and top floors, drapes prevented the south light from screwing up masterpieces. Or perhaps the tenants were sleeping, or out for the day, or watching home movies-

I opened the door and stood in a small areaway facing another door, and this one was locked. The lock looked fairly decent. Through a window in the door-glass with steel mesh in it, they weren’t kidding around here-I could see a flight of stairs, a large self-service freight elevator, and a door that presumably led into the ground-floor apartment. This last was probably a safety requirement, as the ground-floor place had its own entrance in front from the days when it had been some sort of store. The downstairs tenant got his mail through a slot in his front door, because there were only three mailboxes in the hall where I stood, each with a buzzer beneath it, and the middle box was marked Grabow. Nothing fancy, just a scrap of masking tape with the name printed in soft pencil, but it did get the message across.

So his loft figured to be the middle one of the three, which would put it two flights up. I reached for the buzzer and hesitated, wishing I had a phone number for him. After all, I had a whole pocket full of dimes. If I could call him I’d know whether or not to open his door. Hell, if I called him anything could happen. His wife could answer the phone. Craig Sheldrake could answer the phone. He was answering all sorts of phones these days-

But I didn’t want to think about that. I’d cabbed downtown trying not to think at all about Craig and his surprising presence in Jillian’s apartment. If I started thinking about that I’d start wondering why he was there instead of in a cell, and just when they had started letting persons charged with homicide go dancing out on bail. I might even wonder what had led the cops to drop charges against Craig, and who they were looking for to take his place.

God, why would anyone want to think about that?

I pushed Grabow’s button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. Nothing happened again. I gazed thoughtfully at the lock and touched the ring of cunning implements in my trouser pocket. The lock didn’t scare me, but how did I know there was nobody home upstairs? Grabow was an artist. They keep odd hours in the first place, and this guy didn’t have a listed phone, he might not have any phone at all, and maybe he was a temperamental bastard, and if he was sleeping or working he might just let the bell ring and say the hell with it, and then if I came hopping into his place he might be as tickled by the interruption as a hibernating bear.

“Help you?”

I hadn’t even heard the door open behind me. I made myself take a breath and I turned around, arranging my face in what was supposed to be a pleasant smile. “Just looking for someone,” I said.