I’m reporting a hanging in Room 23, second floor, 274 Fel-man Street. If you get over there fast you’ll find a clue in the refuse bin. Don’t be too sure it’s suicide, and take a little trouble checking on the woman. It’ll pay dividends.’
‘Who’s that talking?’ Mifflin demanded.
I could hear the scratch of his pen as he wrote down the address.
I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I said, and hung up.
I pushed my handkerchief into my pocket and took quick, silent steps to the front door. I had about three minutes, not more, to get clear. The city police might not be over-bright, but in emergencies they were fast.
As I slammed the Buick door, a boy in a ragged wind-breaker and a pair of dirty flannel trousers jumped on the running board. He pushed his grimy little face through the open window.
‘Hey, mister, you’re to go to 2 Coral Row; right away: its urgent.’
I started the engine, my eye on the driving mirror, expecting to see a police car come pounding up behind me.
‘Who says so?’
‘Some guy gave me a dollar to tell you. Says it’s urgent, and you’d know.’