He pulled out the plug, slipped off the earphones, said, “You may go up. Apartment 825.”
The lift boy took me up, stopped the lift and indicated the apartment.
The place was just as I had expected it would be, plenty of swank in front and all cut up into small apartments. Bob Elgin stood in the doorway, wearing a dressing-gown, pyjamas, and a look of complete, utter weariness. I don’t think I have ever seen a man who looked so thoroughly tired; not the fatigue of exhaustion, but simply a complete and utter weariness with himself, his surroundings, his life and his job.
He had a cigarette dangling listlessly from loose lips. It was as though the mouth simply didn’t have strength enough to hold the cigarette up, but let it dangle at an angle that emphasized the utter weariness of his features.
“You’re Lam,” he said.
“That’s right.” I extended my hand.
“Bertha Cool’s partner?”
“Right.”
He gave me a listless hand. For a moment there was a slight tightening of the fingers, then his hand became putty.
I dropped the hand, and Elgin said, “Come in.” Technically, it was a double apartment. If the bedroom could be judged by the living-room, it was just about big enough to hold a bed, a dresser and the door to the bathroom. The living-room had a sofa, two chairs and a table, a badly worn carpet, dejected lace curtains, and a few pictures. At one end was a miniature breakfast nook, an electric refrigerator and a small electric range. Above that were some cupboards.