Its exterior was shabby and beat-up, but there was a hint of somebody’s pride about the place. The windows were clean; they had curtains. The tile floor of the vestibule bore signs of scrubbing. There were no mail boxes or bells in the vestibule. Its inner door was unlocked. The hall beyond was dark and narrow. A feeble lamp on the wall table at the foot of the staircase was the only light. There was some mail, more of it stale than fresh, on the table. Steve leafed through it. There was nothing for Harriet Kroll. “Yes?” a voice said. “Are you the landlady?” Steve asked. “Yes,” she said. She was a big, strong-looking landlady. There was belligerence hovering behind her flushed face. She might like us, she might not, but it wouldn’t take her long to decide. You were either in or out with this lady in a very short time. I had the feeling that she had called a lot of cops in her day.
