The man turned to shake hands, then apparently thought better of it and folded his arms. «No sense making a friend in this business. By the way, make it a fast job on MacCleary, won't you?» Remo saw the man's eyes were red. He left for Room 307.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The two East Hudson detectives rode quietly up in the Lamonica Towers elevator to the twelfth floor, the penthouse level.

The silence of the elevator's rise seemed to stifle their speech. Detective Sergeant Grover, a round ball of a man, showed the end of a dead cigar and watched the numbers flash by. Detective Reed, «Long Gaunt Reed» as he was known to the homicide squad, ran a pencil along markings in a small black notebook.

«He had to fall from at least the eighth story,» Reed said.

Grover grunted assent.

«He wouldn't talk.»

«You fall eight stories, you going to talk?» Grover asked. He touched the immaculately polished button panel with a pudgy, hairy finger. «No, he ain't gonna talk. He ain't gonna say nothing. He ain't gonna even make it to the hospital.»

«But he was able to talk. I heard him say something to one of the stretcher men,» Reed said.

«You heard. You heard. Get off my back, you heard.» The blood rushed to the folds of Grover's face. «So you heard; I don't like this whole business. You heard.»

«So what d'ya want from me?» Reed yelled. «It's my fault we gotta speak to the owner of Lamonica Towers?»

Grover wiped at a smudge on the polished button panel. They had been a team nearly eight years and both knew the danger of Lamonica Towers.

It was a luxury apartment house fit for the most exclusive sections of New York, yet the builder had chosen East Hudson. He had brought the town $4.5 million worth of taxable real estate, twelve stories high. Lamonica Towers balanced the municipal budget and lowered the taxes of the townspeople. It was a political asset that had kept one party in power for nearly a decade. It rose, white and splendid, among the gray three-story dwellings that huddled at its base.

And the mayor had issued strict instructions to the police force:

-A prowl car was to circle the towers twenty-four hours a day. No policeman was to enter without the permission of the mayor himself. Any emergency call was to receive top priority.

-And if Mr. Norman Felton, the owner, who lived in the 23-room penthouse should call headquarters, the East Hudson Police Department was to be at his service-after the department had first notified the mayor, who might be able to do something personally for Mr. Felton, whose political contributions were generous.

Grover rubbed a coat sleeve across the panel and stepped back to survey his shining. The smudge was off.

«You should've reached the mayor,» Reed said as the elevator doors opened.

«I should've. I should've. He wasn't home. Whaddya want?»

A red flush rose to the surface of Grover's puffy cheeks. He gave the panel a last inspection, then left the elevator and stepped onto the deep pile of a dark green foyer carpet. When the elevator doors closed, he suddenly realized there was no button to call it back.

He nudged Reed. They could only go forward to the single white door ahead of them with a large metallic eye in the center. The door was ridgeless and without handles.

The well-lit foyer was like a windowless gas chamber except they couldn't even spy a hole for a pill to drop through into the acid.

The foyer bothered Reed least of all. «We didn't even reach the chief,» he grumbled.

«Will you shut up?» Grover asked. «Huh? Just shut up?»

«We're gonna be busted sure as you're born.»

Grover grabbed a handful of Reed's wide blue labels and whispered fiercely: «We have to do it. There's a body downstairs. I know these rich people. Don't worry. We'll be okay. There's nothing the chief can do. We got the law behind us. It's okay.»

Reed shook his head as Grover knocked on the white door. The rap was muffled, like flesh coming against solid steel. Grover removed his hat and nudged Reed to do the same. Reed fumbled with his black notebook but managed to hold on to his fedora. Grover chomped on the butt of the cigar.

The door opened quickly but quietly, sliding to the left, revealing a black-frocked butler, tall and imposing.

They were sorry for disturbing Mr. Felton, Grover told the butler, but they must see him. A man was found on the sidewalk in front of Lamonica Towers. There was reason to believe he fell from one of the apartments.

Grover and Reed suffered under the butler's stare for a moment. Then he said: «Please step inside.»

He ushered them into a large room the size of a banquet hall. The detectives didn't even notice the door quietly slide closed behind them. They gaped at the rich white drapes partially shielding a fifty-foot long picture window. A dark, richly upholstered couch ran the length of a side wall. The room was illuminated by indirect white lighting that seemed like a diffused spotlight for an art exhibit. Modern paintings, each in a different striking setting, surrounded the room like sentinel reminders that two high school graduates had entered a different world from East Hudson.

A black Steinway dominated the far corner of the room. The chairs were works of sculpture, flowing in marble simplicity into lines that blended with the room's decor. Through the picture window, the men could see the red reflection of the setting sun glinting off the sides of passenger ships tied up in New York harbor.

Grover let out a low, long whistle and suddenly wished he had waited to reach the chief. The cigar in his mouth felt like an indictment against his rearing. He stuffed it, wet and sticky end first, into the pocket of his overcoat.

Reed just kept mashing his notebook into his hat.

Finally, the butler returned.

«Mr. Felton will see you gentlemen. If you'll follow me, no smoking please.»

When the butler opened the door to the study, Grover knew he had made a mistake. This was not the East Hudson kind of person he was used to dealing with, not the mayor whom he had known as a shyster lawyer or the leading town physician who while drunk had once fumbled away the life of an infant.

It was a different breed of man who sat in the cherrywood chair, his legs crossed under a cashmere robe, a thin volume on his lap. His graying hair, immaculately groomed, seemed to highlight a strong-lined, somber face. His eyes were light blue and unmoving.

An aura of greatness and elegance seemed to permeate his being, as if his presence lent dignity to the book-lined walls. He seemed like what men should be, but never were.

«Mr. Felton,» the butler said, «the two police gentlemen.»

Mr. Felton nodded and the butler ushered them into the study. The servant placed two chairs near Felton's knees. To his right was a high-polished oak desk. Behind him, drawn curtains.

Mr. Felton nodded. The butler left. Grover sat down hesitantly. Reed followed.

«We're sorry to bother you,» Grover said. Mr. Felton raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance. Grover shifted in his seat. His pants suddenly felt hot and wrinkled tight. «I don't know how to begin this, Mr. Felton.»

The gray-haired man leaned forward and smiled benevolently. «Go ahead,» he said softly.

Grover glanced at Reed's pad and nodded.

«A man was found about an hour ago in front of this building. From the way his body was crushed, we think he fell from one of these apartments.»

«Someone saw him fall, you mean,» Felton asked in a tone suggesting more of a statement than a question.

Grover tilted his head like a man suddenly seeing a door open where none had been before. «No, no,» he said. «No one saw him fall. But we've seen a lot of these plungers and I'm almost sure, begging your pardon, that he came from this building.»