I pressed the button for the manager. After a while she came to the door.
I gave her my most ingratiating smile. “Two young women who just moved in telephoned me about some automobile insurance. I’m from the Auto Club of Southern California. They wanted to get fixed up with driving licenses and insurance.”
“You mean the New Orleans women?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ring them? They’re in two-seventy-one.”
I said, “I’m sorry. I must have had the wrong apartment number. I didn’t take down the name, just the number of the apartment. I must have transposed the figures. I had two-seventeen. It didn’t answer.”
I gave her my best smile while she was thinking that over, and climbed the stairs.
It was dark in the corridor. A ribbon of light was coming from under the door of apartment 271. I closed my fingers over the handle on the door, twisted the knob gently and noiselessly. When I felt the latch had freed, I tried a little pressure.
The door was locked on the inside.
I held the knob in my hand and knocked.