“Wait a minute,” Stone said, still catching his breath. “Did anybody come into the building the last half hour? Anybody at all?”

“Nope. I wake up when people come in. I always do,” the old man said defensively.

Sure. “What time did Miss Nijinsky come home tonight?”

“About nine o’clock. She asked for her mail, but there wasn’t any. It had already been forwarded to the new address.”

“She was moving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What sort of mood was she in?” Stone asked.

“Tired, I’d say. Maybe depressed. She was usually pretty cheerful, had a few words to say to me, but not tonight. She just asked for her mail, and, when I told her there wasn’t any, she just sighed like this.” He sighed heavily. “And she went straight into the elevator.”

“Does she normally get many visitors in the building?”

“Hardly any. As a matter of fact, in the two years she’s been here, I don’t remember a single one, except deliverymen—you know, from the department stores and UPS and all.”

“Thanks,” Stone said. “You go on back to your post, and we’ll probably have more to ask you later.”

Stone stepped into the apartment. He reached high to avoid messing up any prints on the door and pushed it nearly shut. A single lamp on a mahogany drum table illuminated the living room. The place was not arranged for living. The cheap parquet floor was bare of carpets; there were no curtains or pictures; at least two dozen cardboard cartons were scattered or stacked around the room. A phone was on the table with the lamp. Stone picked it up with two fingers, dialed a number, waited for a beep, then, reading off the phone, punched in Nijinsky’s number and hung up. He picked his way among the boxes and entered the kitchen. More packed boxes. He found the small bedroom; the bed was still made.

Some penthouse. It was a mean, cramped, three-and-a-half-room apartment, and she was probably paying twenty-five hundred a month. These buildings had been thrown up in a hurry during the sixties, to beat a zoning restriction that would require builders to offset apartment houses, using less of the land. If they got the buildings up in time, they could build right to the sidewalk. There were dozens of them up and down the East Side.

The phone rang. He got it before it rang a second time.

“Yes?”

“This is Bacchetti.”

“Dino, it’s Stone. Where are you?”

“A joint called Columbus, on the West Side. What’s up?”

“Hot stuff.” Stone gave him the address. “Ditch the girl and get over here fast. Apartment 12-A. I’ll wait five minutes before I call the precinct.”

“I’m already there.” Bacchetti hung up.