“We were in the building trying to get into the Caxton Gallery, so I thought I’d come by and see if you had any scoops for us.”

“About the move? Nobody knows what’s going on. It’s all so sudden.”

“Didn’t you have any connections there?”

“No, one of the other girls here did highlights for the receptionist, though. Her name was Genevieve. She called yesterday and canceled her appointment. Said she’d been laid off and wouldn’t be working here anymore.”

“Got a full name on her, and a home phone number?” Mike asked.

“Let me check with Pat. She’s got a file on every client. I can get it for you before you leave.”

“Have you ever spent time at Caxton’s?”

“Browsing, sure. They always had fabulous things, stunning exhibits.”

“D’you know either of them?”

“Not more than to say hello to. He knew I worked here-I usually walk around with my smock on during the day-so he didn’t waste any time on me. He realized I wasn’t a buyer. But Mrs. Caxton had a good sense of humor and was always very nice to me. She wasn’t in the building all that much the last couple of years, but before that she’d often talk to me about what she’d picked up at auction or how much she’d sold something for. I didn’t know her well, but I liked her.”

Elsa was petite and thin, with short dark hair and creamy porcelain skin. She worked in a black painter’s jacket, black slacks, and thick black clogs, exuding style and a quiet intensity. She took in everything that her surroundings-and her chatting customers-gave out. And as Joan Stafford always said, you could trust her like a grave to keep a confidence.

“What else have you heard?” I asked.

“Rumors. Nothing reliable.”

“About her death?” I was incredulous, expecting that if she had heard anything, however unreliable, Elsa might have called me before our unplanned visit today.

“No, no, no. There was a commotion a couple of weeks ago, maybe a day or two before Mrs. Caxton disappeared. Genevieve’s the one who told us about it. Sort of a row in the gallery.”

“Between Denise and Lowell?”

“No, I don’t think he was even in town, from what we were told.”

That fit with what we knew of Lowell’s movements.

“What was it?”

“Denise showed up in the gallery one afternoon carrying lots of bags, as though she had just been on a Madison Avenue shopping spree. Genevieve told me that most of the staff had remained loyal to her, but the guy who managed the place for Lowell wasn’t a fan of hers. She did whatever business she had come in to do, and then left. The manager literally ran out of the gallery five minutes later, trying to stop Mrs. Caxton before she got into a cab. Genevieve says he accused her of making off with a painting-something small but valuable.”

“Was there a scene on the street?” I asked.

“Actually, it was in the lobby. He reached the ground floor before she did. Stopped Mrs. Caxton in front of that clerk at the building’s information booth and forced her to let him look through all her bags.”

“Did she make a fuss?”

“Nope. Knowing her sense of humor as I did, I expect she enjoyed the commotion. He pulled out all her purchases- lingerie, a peignoir set, a teddy-intimate items like that were flying out of his hands while everyone watched.”

“And the painting?”

“No painting. Off she went. At least, that’s the version we got down here.”

Mike rested his elbow on the counter and looked at Elsa. “So, where did Mrs. Caxton stop on her way downstairs, so that he got to the lobby before she did, even though she had a good head start, huh?”

“Maybe she popped into one of the other galleries, to see a friend?”

“I’ll follow up on that. See if I can get the date of the squabble from this Genevieve, when we find her.” He paused. “But if Mrs. Caxton didn’t pay a social call, and just supposing for the moment that she was trying to take a valuable item out of the building, can you think of any likely place to hide something between the thirty-fifth floor and the lobby?”

Elsa had worked in the salon for more than fifteen years. She had probably inspected every exhibit and office and nook of the Fuller Building during that time, shunning the elevators in favor of the back staircases, as she often told me, for exercise and to relieve the tedium of standing all day at a stationary place behind her work chair.

“I know where Denise used to go to sneak a cigarette,” she said softly.

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Even before the city passed laws about smoking, Lowell never let anyone light a cigarette in the gallery. He had all kinds of special air controls for the maintenance of the art, especially because he had so many old paintings. Most of the staff would go all the way down to the ground floor and stand out in front on the sidewalk to smoke. Denise wouldn’t bother to go that far. She’d mooch a cigarette-I don’t think she did it very often-and she found my secret hideout. That’s where we ran into each other from time to time.”

“You smoke?” Mike asked, like he was interviewing her as a prospect for a date.

“No. But I like to clear my head every now and then. The fumes of these hair dyes can get to you after a few hours. I just go up there for a breath of air, some peace and quiet, and a great view of the city.”

“What is it, like a balcony?”

“Not even close. In fact,” she said, giving Mike the onceover, “I’m not certain you’ll fit. I’ll show you if you’d like.”

We left the salon and Elsa pressed the button to go to the eighteenth floor, which was the highest level we could reach from the eastern bank of elevators. She led us to the large gray fire door and pressed her weight against the long metal bar that opened it onto the staircase. Together we walked up to the nineteenth floor, which was basically a darkened hallway connecting the two sides of the building.

The only illumination came from the glare of the cherry red neon exit sign above the doorway we had just entered. My eyes tried to adjust to the gloomy corridor as I followed behind Elsa, with Mike bringing up the rear.

Two-thirds of the way to the far end, there was a pocket in the wall on our right. Had Elsa not turned toward it, I doubt I would have noticed it at all. She moved surely in that direction and cautioned me to watch the two steps that she climbed, coming face-to-face with another, smaller fire door. As she turned the knob and pushed outward, the door gave way and a sliver of the gray midday sky appeared over her head.

Beyond where Elsa stood was a perch, no more than two feet wide and three feet long. It extended like a small lip, high above the street and out from the side of the building, completely open except for a small iron railing that stretched across it at chest height. My delicate friend stepped onto the ledge, held the bar, and leaned forward to look over the rooftops below.

Then she stepped back and suggested I do the same. “ Vertigo,” I said. “Not for me.” I held on to her arm and tried to stand close to the rail with my eyes open, but I couldn’t bear to stay out there. There didn’t seem to be enough barriers between me and the sidewalk, nineteen stories down. I offered the post to Mike but he declined, crouching on the floor with his fingers outstretched, trying to measure the size of this exterior shelf.

“What are you doing?”

He stood up. “Great place to stash a painting, then come back to pick it up later on. Does the building stay open after the galleries close?”

“Sure. Our salon has much later appointments than the businesses do. Same for the dental offices. The only other office on this floor is the Malaysian Travel Bureau. It keeps regular hours but I’ve never seen much traffic there.”

“Not that many people knocking each other down to get to Malaysia,” Mike said.

Elsa smiled. “I guess not. Of course, lots of the dealers see people by private arrangements, anytime that’s convenient. That’s why there’s always someone at the booth in the main lobby. Denise Caxton was well known to everyone here. She could walk in and out of this building whenever she wanted, without a problem. I just can’t imagine her stealing a painting, or anything else for that matter. That’s why I didn’t think the story was anything serious. The way Genevieve told it, the manager was either simply trying to embarrass Mrs. Caxton or he was making a fool of himself.”