The Amelia Lane Murder Case

Broadways my beach, from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. Broadways my beach, with very sore as detective Danny Clover. The dawn mists of November are drifting slow swirling, clinging to street lamp, and broadway of stone and stillness.

The desolate time, night has slipped out of broadway's fingers, And there's bewilderment now, the puzzled study of venty hands, and the dregs of night, the sleepwalkers, and pulling at their sleeves, solitude. Run from it, beat on a door, find it closed, run again, and suddenly between darkness and light, the roar of trucks,

the hurdle of morning newspapers to pavement, and stop running, give up. There's proof they will come. Autumn Dawn, five o'clock, and down town on East from Broadway, the street lined with November trees to the private library of the Bentley Foundation, where Detective Mugerman was, and a woman lying wounded against a litter of books. When she got

charged she must have stumbled around and he fallen against that book rack, knocked it over. Who found her? Custodium, uh, came in here with his mop and pale and dust rag, grabbed your diamond at the cash box and called it in. It unsettled him, he says, says he I can't work a lick today. I told him I'd fix it with his boss.

He's in bad shape, my girl. Have you? Yeah, I call for the enemy in the standing. Be here any minute. Don't worry about it. Know who she is? Yeah, custodian sold me in. Amelia Lane.

She was working here as librarian when he got this job. Told me she was kind, thoughtful, never yelled at him once. Had a stretch to hear it sometimes, he said. Said the staff gave her a birthday party around six months ago or 50th.