Neither did I think he’d have welcomed Durham if he’d entered the place lugging a brief-case, a bag and a suitcase.
In other words, Tom Durham had disappeared without a trace.
He’d either been smarter than I thought he was or I’d been even dumber than Bertha had thought I was. I’d have sworn he hadn’t known I was following him to the hotel.
I looked at my watch. It was late, but there was one other possibility I could explore.
I went into the telephone booth, found a suburban directory, looked under San Robles, and ran down the pages until I found a Dover Fulton residing at 6285 Orange Avenue. Evidently, then, that much of the story had been true.
From a phone booth, I called the Fulton number. A few moments later the operator told me to deposit twenty cents for three minutes. After the dimes had trickled into the coin-box, I heard a sleepy feminine voice at the other end of the line.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you at this late hour,” I said, “but it’s quite important that I get in touch with Mr. Dover Fulton. Is he there, please?”
“Why, no,” the woman said, “he’s not here right now. He’s been detained in the city. I’m expecting him home almost any time.”
“Could you take a message for him?” I asked her.
“Yes.”