My hand had started for it instinctively, to reach in for a feel, but I caught the impulse in time and stopped. I looked around, but as far as I could see no one had me under special observation, either furtive or open. There was no time for a prolonged test of that nature, for the homicide squad would be busting in any minute, maybe less than a minute, and once they arrived the right of self-determination wouldn't stand a chance.
I reached up and took the hat and coat from the rack and started for the hall door, and had taken three steps when I was halted by a loud growl from behind:
"Hey, you, where you going?"
I turned and spoke loudly but not offensively to the suspicious glare from the precinct dick, "The management is not responsible for hats and coats, and these are mine. There'll be a lot of company coming and I'd prefer to put them in a locker."
I moved as I spoke, and sailed on through the door. There was one chance in three that he would actually abandon Mrs Miltan and take after me, but he didn't. In the hall, I didn't even glance towards the left, where the watchdog stood at the entrance, knowing that it was out of the question to bluff a passage to freedom. Instead I turned right, and it was only five steps to a narrow door I had noticed there. I opened it and saw an uncarpeted wooden stair going down. There was a light switch just inside, but without flipping it on I shut the door behind me and it was pitch-dark, black. With my pencil flashlight for a guide, I descended to the bottom of the stair, quietly but without wasting any time. Playing the light around, I saw that I was in a large low-ceilinged room lined with shelves and with stacks of cartons and shipping cases occupying the middle floor space. I stepped around them and headed for the rear, where I could see the dim rectangles of two windows a few feet apart. I must have been a little on edge, because I stood stiff and motionless and stopped breathing when the beam of my light, directed towards the floor, showed me something sticking out from behind a pile of cartons that I wasn't expecting to see. It was the toe of a man's shoe, and it was obvious from its position and appearance that there was a foot in it and the foot's owner was standing on it. I kept the light on it, steady, and in a few seconds I breathed, moved the light upwards, and put my right hand inside my coat and out again. Then I said out loud, but not too loud:
"Don't move. I'm aiming a gun at where you are and I'm nervous. If your hands are empty stick them out beyond the edge. If they're not empty-"
A sound came from behind the cartons that was something between a moan and a squeal. I let my right hand fall and stepped forward with a grunt of disgust and put the light on him, where he was flattened against the pile of cartons.
"For the love of Mike," I said, absolutely exasperated.
"What the hell are you scared of?"
He moaned. "I seen him." His eyes were still rolling. "I tell you I done seen him."
"So did I seen him. Look here, Arthur, I have no time to waste arguing with you about primitive superstitions. What are you going to do, stay here and moan?"
"I ain't going back up there-don't you try it-don't you touch me, I'm telling you-"
"Okay." I laid the light on a carton, returned the pistol to my holster, and put on my coat and hat. Then I retrieved the light. "I'm going out the back way to see that no one escapes. The best thing you can do is stay right where you are."
"I mean don't I know it," he groaned.
"Fine. Have you got the key for that door?"
"They's a bolt, that's all."
"What's outside, a court with a high fence around it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any door in the fence?"
"No, sir."
Overhead, namely on the floor of the office directly above, I heard the tread of dozens of heavy shoes on heavy feet. The company had come, I even thought I detected the sound of Inspector Cramer's number twelves. As I moved, I had a piece of luck; the beam of my light passed over a boy's size step-ladder standing by the shelves. I went for it, arranged for a diversion by warning Arthur to yell for help if he heard anyone else coming down, found the rear door and unbolted it, and skipped through with the step-ladder.
The court was fairly large, maybe 30 x 40, and paved with concrete, and the solid board fence was two feet over my head. There was plenty of light from the windows of the buildings. I trotted across to the rear, leaned the ladder against the fence, mounted, and looked over into the adjoining court. It was the same size as the one I was in, with a miscellaneous clutter of vague objects scattered around and one object not so vague: a bulky person dressed in white, including an apron and a chefs cap, apparently doing breathing exercises from the way he stood there and puffed. Ten feet back of him a blaze of light came from a door standing open.
I grabbed the top of the fence and pulled myself up and perched there, teetering. At the noise he looked up, startled, but before he could start screeching I demanded:
"Did you see that cat?"
"What cat?"
"My wife's cat. A yellow, long-haired fiend. It got loose and jumped out a window and climbed this fence. If you-" I lost my balance and toppled over and landed flat on the concrete on his side. As I picked myself up I cussed appropriately. "If I find the little darling I'll strangle the damn thing. If you've been standing here you must have seen it."
"I didn't see it."
"You must have. Okay, then you didn't; but it came here. It must have smelled the grub in the restaurant-"
I was on my way and kept going. He started after me, but with slow acceleration, so I went through the open door unimpeded. It was a large room, full of noise, cookery smells, and activity. Without coming to a stop I inquired above the noise, "Did a cat come in here?" They stared at me and a couple shook their heads. There was one with a loaded tray, in waiter's uniform, headed for a swinging door, and I got on his heels and followed him through. At the other end of a pantry corridor another swinging door let us into the restaurant proper-purple and yellow leather, gleaming chromium, gleaming white tables-with waiters fussing around waiting for the evening's customers. One of them blocked me and I snapped at him, "Catching a cat," and went on around. In the foyer the sucker usher gave me an astonished look and the hat-check girl started for me instinctively, but I merely repeated, "Catching a cat," and kept going, on through two more doors and then up to the sidewalk.
I was, of course, on 49th Street. My impulse was to hoof it around a couple of corners to 48th Street and get the roadster, but it was parked only a few yards from the entrance to Miltan's, so I voted unanimously for discretion and hopped into a taxi. On its cushion, bumping along downtown on Park Avenue, I maintained the discretion by not attempting to explore my overcoat pocket, considering that if things got complicated and aggravating enough the taxi-driver might be asked questions about what he had seen in his mirror. So I just sat and let him bump me down to 35th Street and cross-town to the number of Wolfe's house.
As I passed through the front hall I tossed my hat on a hook, but kept my overcoat on. In the office Wolfe sat at his desk, and in front of him was the metal box that was kept on a shelf in the safe, to which he alone had a key, and which he had never opened in my presence. I had always supposed that it contained papers too private even for me, but for all I knew it might have been stuffed with locks of hair or the secret codes of the Japanese Army. He put something into it and shut the lid and frowned at me.