‘You can consider yourself lucky,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘He didn’t give me a thing. How about a little action on that car number? I haven’t got all night.’
Olin spoke into the phone, listened, waited, grunted and hung up.
‘The car belongs to a bird named Preston Kile. He has a house on Roosevelt Boulevard which puts him in the money. Does that help you?’
‘Not much. You wouldn’t like to ask Records if they’ve anything on him?’
Olin sighed, dialled, spoke again into the phone. While he waited, Dallas crossed over to the window and stared down at the two-way stream of traffic flooding the main street. He spotted the Herald truck unloading a pile of newspapers at the corner. The boy snatched them from the driver and began running along the sidewalk, yelling excitedly.
‘Looks like your murder’s hit the headlines,’ he said.
‘It’s going to make a sweet stink,’ Olin said, grimacing. He spoke into the telephone again, then hung up. ‘We’ve got nothing on Kile. We don’t know him.’
‘Well, okay and thanks,’ Dal as said. ‘I guess I’ll have to do a little more leg work. This job gives me the hives. So long, George. Hope you find your killer.’
‘I will,’ Olin said, scowling. ‘The drag-net’s out for him now. It’s just a matter of time. If your job gives you the hives, my job gives me ulcers. So long. Drop in when I’m too busy to see you.’
Dallas grinned and walked quickly along the corridor, down the stairs to the street. He took another taxi to the Herald offices, made his way through a maze of corridors to Huntley Favell’s office, rapped and pushed open the door.