I hurriedly descended the stairs taking them two at a time to the basement. I began banging on the Super’s door so hard and so loudly, that I heard something clatter to the floor. The cover for the peephole no doubt.

“Alright already,” the bleary eyes Super pulled open the door, rubbing his eyes to focus. He was wearing black and white ‘jammies’ boldly printed with cows, lots of them. It was only 7:00 PM. A frail sixty-odd-year-old, with a bulbous rosy nose that suggested its owners had a penchant for the spirits, in his case, gin. He squinted several times before asking what I wanted. His liquor parched cracked lips testified to his preoccupation with his magic elixir.

“Who did you let into my apartment?” I demand from him.

“What?” He asked, stifling a yawn. His booze-laced breath was offensive as I leaned in and grab him by the neck. Willoby, who was behind me, pried me off him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the Super gasped, his right hand caressing his throat.

I pushed my way into his apartment and was met with the foul stench of tobacco, cheap booze and the stale odor of fish from an opened tin of herring, that had not yet made its way from the kitchen counter to the garbage bin.

“The police. They came this morning after you left,” he revealed, his hand still stroking his pronounced Adam’s apple.