Page 21

The Daye-Nelson Corporation was something like Wells Newspapers, Inc. Stanford Former Wells III was aware that in Philadelphia, Daye-Nelson owned the Philadelphia Ledger, WGHA-TV, and, he thought he remembered, a couple of suburban weeklies.

“Come on, Kurt,” Fort Wells said, impatiently.

“They put together a couple of blocks of Society Hill,” Kruger explained. “Knocked all the interior walls out, and made apartments. It looks like a row of Revolutionary-era houses, but they are now divided horizontally, instead of vertically. Three one-floor apartments, instead of narrow three-floor houses. You follow me?”

“Keep going,” Wells said.

“Both sides of this street, twelve houses on a side, are all redone that way. And their title people did their homework, and found out that the street between the blocks had never been deeded to the city. It’s a private street, in other words. It’s more of an alley, actually, but they can, and do, bar the public. They hung a chain across it, and they’ve got a rent-a-cop there that lowers it only if you live, or have business, there. If you live there, they give you a sticker for your windshield; no sticker and the rent-a-cop won’t let you in without you proving you’ve got business, or are expected. Sort of a doorman on the street.”

“Secure, in other words?”

“Yeah,” Kruger went on. “And they leveled an old warehouse, and made a park out of it, and made a driveway into what used to be the basement for a garage. It’s ten, twelve blocks from WCBL, Fort. It would be ideal for your—”

“Daughter’s the word, Kurt,” Wells said. “How much?”

“Not how much, but who,” Kruger said. “What Daye-Nelson wants is long-term leases. And I don’t think they would want to lease one to a single female.”

“So?”

“The real estate guy told me they’ve leased a dozen of them to corporations, where the bosses can spend the night when they have to stay in the city, where they can put up important customers . . . there’s maid service, and a couple of restaurants nearby that deliver.”

“How much, Kurt?”

“Nine hundred a month, on a five-year lease, with an annual increase tied to inflation. That includes two spaces in the garage.”

“You’ve seen them I guess?”

“Very nice, Fort. There’s one on a third floor available, that’s really nice. You can see the river out the front window, and Independence Hall, at least the roof, out the back.”

“Call the real estate man, Kurt; tell him Wells Newspapers will take it. I’ll have Charley Davis handle it from there. Do it now.”

“And what if Louise doesn’t like it?”

“She’s a dutiful daughter, Kurt,” Wells said, and laughed, “who will recognize a bargain when she sees one.”

****

The barrier to Stockton Place consisted of a black-painted aluminum pole, hinged at one end. A neatly lettered sign reading STOCKTON PLACE — PRIVATE PROPERTY — NO THOROUGHFARE hung on short lengths of chain from the pole. A switch in the Colonial-style red-brick guard shack caused electric motors to raise and lower it. The Wackenhut Private Security officer flipped the switch when he saw the yellow Cadillac convertible coming. It was too far away to see the Stockton Place bumper sticker, but there weren’t all that many yellow Cadillac convertibles, and he was reasonably certain this had to be the good-looking blonde from the TV, whom he thought of as “6-A.”

The barrier rose smoothly into the air. It was only when the car passed him, moving onto the carefully re-laid cobblestones of Stockton Place, that he saw she was not driving, but that a cop was. And that the convertible was being followed by a police car.

He was retired from the Philadelphia Police Department, and it automatically registered on him that the numbers on the car identified it as being from the Second District, way the hell and gone across town, in the northeast.

The first thing he thought was that they’d busted her for driving under the influence, and the lieutenant or whoever had decided it was good public relations, her being on the TV, to warn her and let her go, have her driven home, instead of writing her up and sending her to the Roundhouse to make bail.

But when the convertible stopped in front of Number Six and she got out, she didn’t look drunk, and she walked back to the police car and shook hands with the cop driving it. And 6-A didn’t look like the kind of girl who would get drunk, anyway.

He stepped out of the guard shack and stood by the curb, hoping that when the police car came back out, they would stop and say hello, and he could ask what was going on.

But the cops just waved at him, and didn’t stop.

Louise Dutton closed the door of 6-A behind her by bumping it with her rear end, and sighed, and then went into her bedroom, and to the bathroom. She saw her brassiere and panties where she’d tossed them on the bed. A plain and ordinary cotton underwear bra and panties, she thought, which she’d taken off to replace with black, filmy, damned-near transparent lingerie bra and panties after Captain Dutch Moffitt had called and she had gone to meet him.

She leaned close to the mirror. She had not removed her makeup before leaving the studio, and there were streaks on her face, where tears had marred the makeup. She dipped a Kleenex into a jar of cold cream and started wiping at the makeup.

The door chimes sounded, and she swore.

Who the hell can that be?