Bardin opened the car door and inspected the registration tag.
“Might have guessed it,” he said. “Jordan’s car. Who said he wasn’t hopped to the eyebrows?”
“Well, at least he’s home,” Conrad returned, and walked over to the entrance to the apartment block. He pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby, followed by Bardin.
A stout pink-and-white reception clerk in a faultlessly fitting tuxedo rested two small white hands on the polished top of the reception desk and raised his pale eyebrows at Conrad with a touch of hauteur.
“Is there something I can do?”
Bardin pushed his bulk forward. He flashed his buzzer and scowled. When he wanted to, he could look tough and ferocious, and he was looking tough and ferocious now.
“Lieutenant Bardin, City police,” he said in a grating voice. “Jordan in?”
The reception clerk stiffened. His small hands fluttered.
“If you mean Mr. Ralph Jordan; yes, he is in. Did you wish to see him?”
“When did he get in?”