The DeathI climbed a long stretch of narrow, dimly lit steps, Mrs. Bower’s envelope in my carpet-bag. At the top, I stopped to rest for a bit. I was dreading this.
The hall was as long and narrow as the stair, doors on either side. Her home was at the very end. A lovely brown-skinned woman in her middle forties with heavy-straight black hair opened the door, fully dressed for the street. “May I help you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Bower —”
She flinched.
“— but I have something you need to see.”
Dread filled her eyes. “I was just about to leave for the Plaza.” She seemed flustered. “I share a booth there.” Then she opened the door wide. “But please, come in.”
The door led directly to a corner one-room. Ahead, a tea-table with two chairs sat beside a double bed. Beyond that was a
