CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Second Call—OldgateThe superintendent of the walk-up, a dreamy little Irishman without many teeth, leaned on his broom when Gamadge spoke to him, and put a forefinger politely to his front hair.
Gamadge said: “I used to know this street pretty well once, when all the houses were private houses. Changes, here.”
“And many everywhere. It was the zoning us for business did for us, sir; that meant the speak-easies came in. But we’ve quieted down since the liquor came back.”
Gamadge leaned against the railing that enclosed a row of privet bushes. “Across the street,” he said, watching while Limpeck drove to the Lexington Avenue corner and poised the car for flight: “that was Miss Fenson’s house—the actress.”
“Beautiful inside. And the two ladies next door to her, they put o
