Ken dialed the number and talked briefly to his father, completing arrangements for meeting him later on.
“We’re eating at Dominick’s,” he reported to Sandy. “And Dad says he’s already called Dominick and warned him, so we ought to be prepared for something special.”
Sandy beamed. “Swell. That sounds like spaghetti. How long have we got to work up an appetite?”
“Until six thirty.”
“I could do it in half that time,” Sandy said.
Ken ignored him. He was leafing through the New York telephone book. “Barnes ... Barotti ... and here’s a Barrack, Charles. But no Amos Barrack. Guess our friend with the broken watch crystal doesn’t have a telephone.”
“Maybe it’s unlisted—like your dad’s,” Sandy suggested. “I tell you what. Call information and ask her if there’s any phone at all at his address. If it’s an apartment house there might be one in the lobby.”
“That’s a good idea. Then we could at least leave a message for him.” Ken twirled the dial, made his request, and a moment later was scribbling down the number he had been given.
“Only one phone at that address, listed under the name of Marie Mallory,” he reported, as he began to dial again. “I’ll try it.”
The ringing was answered shortly by a woman who spoke so loudly that Ken had to jerk the receiver away from his ear to avoid being deafened.