Using a bit of tissue, he turned off the light. Retreating through the apartment he turned off the bedroom lights, the small lamp just inside the apartment door. He turned the knob by grasping the shank of it with the same bit of tissue, closed it gently, went down the stairs and out onto the street, keeping well in the shadows.
The risk of talking to cab drivers was too great He angled across the street. When he reached the corner, he saw that the stand was deserted. It was twenty after three. The sleeping city surrounded him. The wide sidewalks were empty.
A cruising prowl car turned onto the same street two blocks away. He turned, too quickly, and began to walk away from it. He heard it slow as it came up to him. It would be too indicative not to turn and look at it. He turned, hoping the hat brim would shade his face from the street light overhead. The car speeded up then, and he saw for a fleeting instant the glint of light on a thick jaw.
He walked fifteen blocks to the railroad station, sat for a time in the waiting room. He dozed off, awakened with a start. At six-thirty he bought a razor, blades, toothbrush, toothpaste, went to the men’s room and shut himself in a cubicle. He had breakfast and arrived early at the office.
During the weary morning he did not permit himself to think of how slim his single chance was, how incredibly slim. He was banking on a certain bravado in the stance of the man who had come from Bertha’s apartment, a certain air of being willing to take a calculated risk.
At ten of twelve, he took the elevator down to the lobby and went into the restaurant. He selected a table from which he could observe both entrances. It might even be that the man had met her in some other way, in some other place. There was a new girl behind the grill. A sallow, blonde girl with a petulant mouth and a soiled pink shoulderstrap showing.
The pimpled waiter came over to his table. After he ordered, he forced himself to say:
“Where’s the other girl, the cashier?”
“Bertha?” The waiter leered and made a clicking sound with his teeth. “She quit us ten days ago. Said she had prospects.”
He forced a wide grin. “Wealthy boy friend?”
“I wouldn’t know. She’s a smart dish but too rough for me.”
The world seemed full of stocky men who carried themselves confidently. Forrester watched them come in twos and threes, florid, assured, demanding service, talking shop. He knew then that he had failed, that he had not seen enough of the man who had come out of the apartment. There was too little to go on. The chances were too slim.
He finished his lunch, ordered more coffee. The waiter, anxious to get rid of him so that the table could be filled again, glared at him. Forrester put two dollars on the table and said: “I’m waiting for somebody.”
The waiter picked up the money. “Certainly, sir. Take your time.”
A man who sat alone finished his meal, went up and paid. Like so many others he was stocky, heavy, confident. He kidded the girl behind the grill, was rewarded with a weak smile. He picked up his change, dropped it into his pocket.
Then he put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, clicked the silver lighter loudly, walked off with a heavy thump of heels on the tile floor, the cigarette in his right hand swinging in short arcs.
When Forrester reached the sidewalk, the man was forty feet ahead of him. The noon crowd was so thick that Forrester could risk getting within ten feet of the man. He went two blocks south, turned and went into an office building. Forrester stood next to him in the elevator. The man had a squarish face, a crisp graying mustache, a tweed topcoat and a youthful snap-brim felt hat. He had weather wrinkles at the corners of small, shrewd eyes.
The elevator was jammed and several people got off with the stout man at the eleventh floor. Forrester got off too, walked over to the floor directory, saw the man go down the wide hall, turn into an open door.
Forrester followed slowly. When he was opposite the doorway, he could see that the carefully lettered sign on the opaque glass of the door said, “Kimberly and Hannon.” In the lower right corner, in smaller letters, it said: “Laboratory Equipment.”
The walnut desk of the receptionist faced the door. She was a thin, dark girl, wearing harlequin glasses and typing on an electric typewriter.
As he came in, she glanced up, swept off the heavy glasses and, squinting faintly said: “Good afternoon?”
He smiled. “I happened to be in the building and I saw the man who just came in here. I wondered if it was an old friend of mine from years back. Henry Jorgenson.”
“We have no one by that name in the offices. Mr. E. Mills Hannon just came back from lunch.”
“Heavy man? Gray hair?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“Would he be Ed Hannon?”
She frowned at the impertinence. “I believe his first name is Edward.”
Forrester caught the faint movement out of the comer of his eye. Edward Hannon stood in the doorway of an expensive looking office. He frowned and said: “You wanted to see me, young man?”
“Ah… no, sir. I just thought you were someone else and I was asking the young lady if…”
“You just rode up beside me in the elevator. I believe I noticed you at lunch. I have a feeling you followed me here. Please explain yourself.” The voice was crisp, businesslike and faintly indignant.
“Can I see you alone for a few minutes, Mr. Hannon?”
Hannon stared at him without expression. The girl put her pixie glasses back on and stopped squinting. Hannon turned on his heel, said abruptly: “Come in.”
As Forrester entered, Hannon closed the office door, crossed over to his desk, perched on one corner, pulled the lighter out of his pocket and began clicking the lid open and shut.
“What is it? Get on with it,” Hannon said.
Forrester walked over and sat in a chair near the opposite corner of the desk. It had moved faster than he had anticipated.
“It’s about Bertha Lewis,” Forrester said.
The man did not change expression. He stopped clicking the lighter and he ceased to swing his leg. For a moment he was very still. Then the two motions began again.
“Kindly tell me who you are. What is your capacity?”
“I’m… I’m just a friend of hers.”
“I’m rather afraid I don’t know the young lady.”
“Then how would you know she was young?”
Hannon flushed. “What sort of nonsense it this? You’re young. You’re a friend of hers. It’s an obvious conclusion.”
“You seemed to know her last night, Mr. Hannon.”
Hannon put the lighter back in his pocket. He stood up and Forrester saw that his fists were balled.
Forrester said softly: “At a quarter of three you came out of her apartment. You lit a cigarette and walked off toward the taxi stand.”
Hannon lost most of his autocratic air in a matter of seconds. He went behind his desk, sat on the green leather chair. He smiled. He said: “It was just instinct that made me deny knowing her. The desire to protect her — her good name, you understand. She’s a charming young lady. Very charming.”
“But she was making herself too expensive, wasn’t she, Mr. Hannon? What did she have on you?”
Hannon said, in a husky tone: “I’m afraid I don’t follow you. She didn’t have anything on me, young man.”
“You use the past tense very naturally, Mr. Hannon.”
Hannon open his mouth to speak, closed it, swallowed, and said stubbornly: “I don’t understand.”
“We’ll have to go to the police, Mr. Hannon. Right now. We’ll have to tell them, you know. Your story and mine.”