“You get bright ideas a little late, don’t you? He may not be anxious to have her back. A telephone conversation can be closed down too easily. I have a feeling he’ll need talking to.”
We crossed the Oakland Bay Bridge a few minutes after three o’clock, turned off 3rd into Montgomery Street, and left into California Street.
Freedlander’s place was halfway down on the right-hand side. It was one of those nondescript dwelling-houses: six storeys of rabbit warren, blaring radio and yelling children.
A party of kids came storming down the stone steps to welcome us. They did everything to the car except puncture the tyres and drop lighted matches into the petrol tank.
Kerman picked out the biggest and toughest of them and gave him half a buck.
“Keep your pals off this car and you’ll get the other half,” he said.
The boy hauled off and socked a kid around the ears to show his good faith. We left him booting another.
“Nice neighbourhood,” Kerman said, stroking his moustache with his thumb-nail.
We went up the steps and examined the two long rows of mail-boxes. Freedlander’s place was on the fifth floor: No. 25. There was no elevator, so we walked.
“It’s going to make me a happy day if he’s out,” Kerman panted as he paused on the fourth landing to mop his brow.