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heavy. She had the same look of weariness and mistrust.
    â€œDown ’da hall. Apartment 1A,” surrendered the younger woman.
    Sandro and Mike entered the building. Apartment 1A was immediately to their left. Sandro knocked on the door. An old woman opened it and peered out cautiously. Her face looked kindly; her gray hair was gathered in a bun on the back of her head. “Yes? What is?” she asked. She must be from the old days, Sandro thought, when the neighborhood was predominantly Jewish and Slovak.
    â€œMy name is Luca. I’m a lawyer.” The old woman’s eyes were curious on Sandro; then they moved to something at his left. Sandro turned to see the young woman from the stoop now at his elbow. He had been too curious a spectacle for her to resist. “I’m the lawyer appointed by the court to defend the man accused of killing the policeman on the roof.” Sandro pointed ceilingward for emphasis. “Luis Alvarado. He’s the one the police took to jail.”
    The old woman nodded. Her face was now creased with uneasiness. “I know nothing. I was in a hospital. My husband, he was sick. I was in a hospital.” She seemed pleased to plead ignorance about the day of the murder. Sandro made a mental note to check out the hospitals in the area.
    â€œThat punk,” the young woman at Sandro’s left sneered. “You his lawyer?”
    â€œThat’s right. You know something about what happened that day? Sandro turned to her.
    â€œI know they oughta put that punk in the electric chair. He killed the cop.”
    â€œDid you see what happened here that day?”
    â€œNah. I didn’t see nothin’. But he did it, that punk. I know that.”
    â€œHow do you know if you didn’t see it? I’m appointed by the court, not by the man. I want the facts, too. If you know something about it, I’d like to know. It’s going to be difficult enough for this fellow to have a fair trial. He’s Puerto Rican, and a cop was killed. The district attorney isn’t going to be giving him any breaks. He’s one of your own, isn’t he?”
    â€œDon’t hand me that. I don’t know nothin’ about him. ’Cept he’s a no good punk. He oughta be put right in the chair and burned.”
    â€œMiss, if you were in his place, you’d want a fair trial and a lawyer. All I’m trying to do is find the truth. If he’s guilty—”
    â€œ If he’s guilty?” She was incredulous. “He did it!”
    Sandro nodded slowly, turning toward the superintendent’s wife again. “You weren’t here, is that right?”
    The super’s wife smiled her uneasy smile again. “No. I was in a hospital. My husband.”
    â€œDo you know if there is anybody in the building who saw anything that day? Anybody who saw the crime, saw the policeman on the roof? I’d like to talk to them.”
    â€œNo, I don’t know,” she shook her head.
    â€œHow about you, miss? Anyone in the building who might know what happened that day?”
    â€œWe know what happened that day. He killed the cop.” She shifted stiffly from one foot to the other, crossing her arms.
    â€œThanks,” said Sandro, turning back to the superintendent. “Whose apartment was it that was broken into?”
    â€œSoto,” she replied. “Top, in the back.”
    â€œThank you.”
    Sandro and Mike turned, watched silently by the women. The hallway was narrow and dark. The stairway was on the right side of the hallway. On the left, along the side of the stairs and behind the superintendent’s apartment, was a corridor leading to a rear apartment. There was a toilet closet under the stairs, its door next to the rear apartment.
    â€œThat’s a sweetheart, that young one,” said Mike as they ascended. “If it was up to her, you’d be sunk.”
    â€œYou’re not just kidding. Listen,