“Is there a Mr. Barrack there?” he asked. “A Mr. Amos Barrack. I’d like to speak to him if it’s possible.”
“He’s not here now,” the woman bellowed. “He works. He’ll be home tonight, I guess. He’s got a room here. I’m the landlady. Any message?”
“My name is Holt,” Ken answered. “I’m calling Mr. Barrack about something he left in Brentwood the other day.... That’s right. Brentwood. Would you tell him that, please, and ask him to call me this evening?”
“Sure. I’ll tell him. What time?”
“Eh—let’s see.” Ken calculated quickly. “I won’t be here until after eleven o’clock.”
“All right. I’ll tell him,” she repeated.
Ken gave her his father’s number and then hung up, holding his hand to his long-suffering ear. “She said—”
“I heard her,” Sandy assured him. “And now let’s go see Lausch and get that off our minds, so I can start concentrating on spaghetti.”
Felix Lausch declared that he was delighted to see them. He inquired for his friend, Richard Holt, insisted upon showing them one or two of his department’s newest acquisitions, and then took them into his private office and settled them comfortably.
“Now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “what can I do for you? You’re not involved in another one of those investigations you two seem to get into, are you?”