Nearing the center of the porch, the man pressed his back against the white-painted wall, almost blending into it except for his dark, swarthy face. Now he moved sidewise, crab-like, until he reached a partly opened latticed door. He stopped, pressing his head against the slight crack where the door was hinged.
Moments passed. Then he heard the sharp jangling sound of a telephone ringing from within the room beyond. Next he heard the soft pad of feet on thick piled carpet as the room’s occupant crossed the floor to take the call.
Now the prowler abandoned his extreme caution. He looked through the partly opened door. He saw the back of a man sitting at a telephone table. The prowler carefully pulled the door open and slipped into the room. Its occupant had the phone’s receiver to his ear.
“On your call to Mr. Thomas Brewster in Indianapolis, Indiana, sir,” the operator was saying, “they are ringing that number now.”
The prowler crept closer until he was within an arm’s length of the seated man.
“Yes,” the man said into the telephone. “I’ll hold the line.” With his free hand he pulled a well-used pipe from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. Then he patted the table for matches. He opened a drawer and felt in it.
The prowler watched his prey anxiously. He was an old man, with shaggy white hair hanging down almost to his collar.
Unable to find a match, the old man had just started to turn when the operator spoke again.
“This is Honolulu, Hawaii, calling Mr. Thomas Brewster,” she said. A few seconds passed. “Here’s your party, sir.”
The prowler stood there, arms raised, the fingers of his cupped hands spread like talons just over the old man’s shoulders.