I hung up and reached for the phone book again and looked up the Wentworth Apartments. I dialed the manager's number.
I had a blurred vision of Mr. Canino driving fast through rain to another appointment with death.
"Glendower Apartments. Mr. Schiff speaking."
"This is Wallis, Police Identification Bureau.
Is there a girl named Agnes Lozelle registered in your place?"
"Who did you say you were?"
I told him again.
"If you give me your number, Ill — "
"Cut the comedy," I said sharply, "I'm in a hurry.
Is there or isn't there?"
"No. There isn't." The voice was as stiff as a breadstick.
"Is there a tall blonde with green eyes registered in the flop?"
"Say, this isn't any flop — "
"Oh, can it, can it!" I rapped at him in a police voice. "You want me to send the vice squad over there and shake the joint down?
I know all about Bunker Hill apartment houses, mister.
Especially the ones that have phone numbers listed for each apartment."
"Hey, take it easy, officer. I'll co-operate.
There's a couple of blondes here, sure.
Where isn't there?
I hadn't noticed their eyes much.
Would yours be alone?"
"Alone, or with a little chap about five feet three, a hundred and ten, sharp black eyes, wears a doublebreasted dark gray suit and Irish tweed overcoat, gray hat.
My information is Apartment 301, but all I get there is the big razzoo."
"Oh, she ain't there.
There's a couple of car salesmen living in three-o-one."
"Thanks, I'll drop around."
"Make it quiet, won't you?
Come to my place, direct?"
"Much obliged, Mr. Schiff." I hung up.
I wiped sweat off my face.
I walked to the far corner of the office and stood with my face to the wall, patted it with a hand.
I turned around slowly and looked across at little Harry Jones grimacing in his chair.
"Well, you fooled him, Harry," I said out loud, in a voice that sounded queer to me. "You lied to him and you drank your cyanide like a little gentleman.
You died like a poisoned rat, Harry, but you're no rat to me."
I had to search him.
It was a nasty job.
His pockets yielded nothing about Agnes, nothing that I wanted at all.
I didn't think they would, but I had to be sure.
Mr. Canino might be back.
Mr. Canino would be the kind of self-confident gentleman who would not mind returning to the scene of his crime.
I put the light out and started to open the door. The phone bell rang jarringly down on the baseboard. I listened to it, my jaw muscles drawn into a knot, aching. Then I shut the door and put the light on again and went across to it.
"Yeah?"
A woman's voice.
Her voice.
"Is Harry around?"
"Not for a minute, Agnes."
She waited a while on that. Then she said slowly:
"Who's talking?"
"Marlowe, the guy that's trouble to you."
"Where is he?" sharply.