After lots of arguing and analyzing and compromising (and another round of drinks), we finally agreed on a plan for the following day: Terry would make a surprise appearance at his sister’s old apartment on East 19th Street and question her former roommates-especially the one who had lost a handful of hair due to flirting with Judy’s then boyfriend, who may or may not have been Jimmy Birmingham; Abby would go with me to pay a call on the same Mr. Birmingham, at the East 8th Street address we found listed next to his name in the phone book. I had originally intended to drop in on Jimmy and Otto by myself, but Terry and Abby quickly nixed that idea. They thought it would be too dangerous-and after closer consideration, so did I.

As for the Smythe’s Christmas Eve party, we decided we’d all three go together. I would pass myself off as a new Farnsworth Fiduciary client, Terry would pose as my husband, and Abby would play the part of an out-of-town cousin who was staying with us for the holidays. I wasn’t worried about bringing an additional guest since Smythe had said his wife would never notice an extra face in the crowd. And I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that when girl-happy Gregory got a good look at Abby, she’d be welcomed with open arms (and puckered lips).

I was glad my friends would be going to the party with me. I figured I’d feel a lot safer with a “husband” by my side. And I knew Abby would be the perfect decoy to keep Mr. Smythe occupied (and thoroughly distracted) while I focused my investigative attentions on Mrs. Smythe. Augusta, after all, had been the one who originally purchased the diamonds, so they had rightfully belonged to her. Did that mean Gregory had stolen the jewelry from his wife to give to his girlfriend? Did Augusta know that her precious antique diamonds had been removed from the family vault and deposited in the Chelsea apartment of her husband’s new mistress-a nineteen-year-old blonde lingerie salesgirl named Judy Catcher?

I hoped to get the answers to these and a few other questions at the party. And now that Terry and Abby would be there to help me, I thought I had a chance. It felt really great to be part of a bona fide team instead of having to wing it so much on my own. But, team or no team, I was still a third wheel. And Abby and Terry were making eyes at each other again! So-as soon as we decided on a new hiding place for the diamonds (wrapped in tinfoil and buried deep in a canister of sugar in Abby’s overstocked pantry)-I knew it was time for me to vamoose.

I gathered up my coat, beret, gloves, and the Tiffany bag with Dan’s present in it, and said goodnight. Then I stepped across the landing to my own apartment. I wasn’t at all eager to be alone, but I was looking forward to a warm knee-and-shin-soaking bath, fresh applications of Mer curochrome and Unguentine, a change into something more comfortable, and a phone call-or, preferably-a surprise visit from Dan.

I was in for a surprise, all right, but it wouldn’t be delivered by Dan.

Chapter 22

EVEN BEFORE I TURNED ON THE LIGHT I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. And what I felt was cold. The temperature in my apartment had dropped to about thirty degrees. I knew it couldn’t be a problem with the steam since Abby’s place had been perfectly warm, and our Siamese twin radiator systems always functioned-or didn’t-in tandem. Heart slamming against the walls of my chest and beating loudly on my eardrums, I dropped all the stuff in my arms to the floor, sucked in a blast of frigid air, and flipped on the light.

At first glance, everything looked normal. Each piece of furniture was in its proper place; my typewriter was sitting right where I’d left it on the kitchen table; my rented floor-model Sylvania was standing upright near the couch/door/ daybed; all my books and record albums were neatly arranged on the living room shelves. At second glance, however, my eyes found the chilling source of the trouble. The back door to my apartment-the door that led from my kitchen to the balcony, and to the metal stairway leading down to the small rear courtyard-was standing wide open. One of the panes in the door-the one closest to the lock and the knob-was missing, and the linoleum just inside the door was littered with shattered glass.

Someone had broken into my apartment! Terrified that the intruder might still be there, hiding in the coat closet or lying in wait for me upstairs, I stood frozen in the middle of my kitchen, holding my breath, trying not to make a sound, straining my ears to the breaking point, listening for unusual creaks and squeaks-or somebody else’s breathing. So much adrenaline was rushing through my veins I felt volcanic.

After several moments of stone cold quiet, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw open the coat closet and peered inside. Nothing. Zilch. Nobody. I darted over to the back door, flipped on the outside light, stuck my head through the door, and raked my eyes down the steps and around the snow-clogged courtyard. Nobody there either. There was a ragged path of deep footprints in the snow, though, giving further proof that somebody had been there. And since half of those footprints were pointed down the steps and away from my apartment, I figured the intruder had already made his retreat-across the courtyard and out through the rear gate.

But I had to make sure, right? So I grabbed the first weapon of self protection I could lay my hands on-the bottle of bleach I kept under the kitchen sink-and dashed upstairs. (I know, I know! I should have grabbed a knife, for God’s sake. Every kitchen has one. Better yet, I should have run next door and gotten Abby and Terry to come help me. But I wasn’t thinking very clearly at the time, and the only plan my poor brain could come up with was to flush the intruder out into the open and throw bleach in his face. It wouldn’t kill him, but it might blind him, and maybe that would be all the protection I’d need.)

But there was nobody upstairs either. Not a single murderer in sight. Not in either of the clothes closets, or under the bed, or hiding behind the shower curtain. Finally certain that I was alone, I went back downstairs, set the Clorox on the counter, and closed and relocked both my back and front doors. I picked up the stuff I’d dropped on the floor when I first entered the apartment, and put it all down on a kitchen chair. Then, emptying and flattening a small Duz detergent box, I covered the broken pane with the double-thick cardboard container, securing it to the door frame and sealing it on all sides with numerous strips of masking tape. Then I began sweeping up the broken glass. I was moving around in slow motion, like a retarded robot, hardly aware of what I was doing.

Until the phone rang.

Jumping so high I almost conked my head on the ceiling, I dropped the dustpan and the broom on the floor and lunged into the living room, praying to all the deities in all the heavenly kingdoms of all the world’s religions that the caller would be Dan. I just wanted to hear Dan’s voice. I really needed to hear Dan’s voice.

“Hello?” I croaked, holding the receiver so tight and so close it almost fused with my ear. “Hello, Dan? Is that you?”

There was no reply. I could hear breathing, though, so I knew somebody was there.

“Hello? Who is this please?”

Still no response. There was more harsh breathing, a few snuffling noises, and then some sounds I couldn’t identify.

I stayed quiet for a few seconds, listening intently to the noises on the other end, trying to decipher their causes. At first I thought the caller was chewing on something-a piece of gum or maybe a sandwich-and then I heard something that sounded like licking.