“Oh, she’s fine, I guess,” Conrad said, and was annoyed to hear how flat and unenthusiastic his voice sounded.
V
Driving just below the speed limit, Conrad cut through the back streets to avoid the theatre traffic. He wondered uneasily if Janey had made good her threat and had gone out, and if she had, whether she was back yet. He didn’t want to think about her just now, but inevitably, whenever he headed for home, she forced herself into his thoughts.
He slowed down to light a cigarette. As he flicked the match through the open window his eye caught the name-plate of the street: Glendale Avenue.
It was not until he had nearly reached the end of the street that he remembered the girl, Frances Coleman, who had called on June Arnot at seven o’clock this night, had given her address as 145 Glendale Avenue. His foot trod down hard on the brake and he swung the car to the kerb.
For a moment he sat still, staring through the windshield at the dark empty street. Doc Holmes had said June Arnot had died around seven o’clock. Was it possible this girl had seen something?
He got out of the car and peered at the nearest house. It was numbered 123. He walked for a few yards until he came to 145.
It was a tall, shabby, brown-stone house. Some of the windows showed lights; some didn’t.
He climbed the flight of steep stone steps and looked through the glass panel of the front door. Beyond was a dimly lit hall with stairs going away into the darkness.
He turned the door knob and pushed. The door opened and a violent smell of frying onions, virile tomcats and ripe garbage jostled past him as if anxious to reach some fresh air.