“Okay.”
We started with a jerk. The signal at the corner changed as we got into motion, but Miller managed to skid around the corner just in advance of the oncoming avalanche of cross-street traffic. We had a run of three blocks before another signal changed against us, and Miller made a screaming turn to the right, caught an open signal at the next block, turned to the left, and gave it the gas.
Once he had to stop for a closed signal and a stream of traffic pouring against him. The rest of the time it was nonstop.
He pulled up in front of a little apartment house, an unpretentious, two-storied affair only some fifty feet in width, but running the length of a deep lot — the usual type of brick building with a half-hearted attempt made at freshening up the front by the use of white stucco and red tile.
“This is the joint,” Miller said.
I handed him a five-dollar bill.
“Want me to wait?”
“No. It won’t be necessary.”
I consulted the directory. It was all filled up. Most of the cards, however, were slightly soiled. Some of them were printed.
There was no name anywhere on the board which remotely resembled that of Edna Cutler, no card which seemed absolutely fresh.