He took air into his lungs in great gulps, soaked the handkerchief in a little puddle of rainwater and tried to clean his face. Then he went down the dark street swiftly towards Broadway.
The druggist looked at him through thick spectacles, gestured towards the back of the store.
Doolin said: “Fix me up some peroxide an’ bandages an’ stuff — I had an accident.” He went back to the telephone booth, found the number of the Fontenoy, called it, asked for Mrs. Sare.
The operator said Mrs. Sare didn’t answer.
Doolin hung up and went out and cleaned the blood from his face in front of a mirror. A little girl stared at him wide-eyed from the soda fountain; the druggist said: “Automobile...?”
Doolin nodded.
The druggist asked: “How much bandage do you want?”
Doolin said: “Let it go — it’s not as bad as I thought it was.”
He put his hat on the back of his head and went out and got into a cab, said: “Fontenoy Apartments — Hollywood. An’ make it snappy.”
Lola Sare’s voice said: “Yes,” with rising inflection.