"Some joint in Harlem."
"How long have you been in there?" She sounded suspicious.
"Alice!" I groaned. "If you could only see me! My suit's ripped in a dozen places. I'm all greasy where I slid down the cable and my hands are burned raw. I hurt."
"Poor boy," she soothed. She was silent for a moment, then became her briskest self. "Listen, Max. We have to consider every possibility. This might be a self-hypnotic illusion brought on by overwork. Remember, you've seen these things on many covers and interiors, too. You've lived fictionally with the Kiriki for a year. Consider that—"
"Nuts!" I yelled. "I'm going to the police!"
"And spend the night in the drunk tank?" Alice queried severely. "Just who do you think will believe your story?"
"I can take them to this loft."
"Think, Max! What will they find? Nothing! Even if it is true, do you imagine this—this Kiriki is going to be caught like a fish in a barrel? He has been spotted. Obviously, he will leave the loft at once."
She was so right, and I knew it. I groaned.
"Who or what is this Thing?" Alice asked, but it was plain she only half-believed my story.