It was a walk-up. Her apartment was on the second floor. There were two rooms, both small. She indicated a chair, said, “Sit down. I’ll try to find that letter from my friend, asking me to show Mr. Smith around. It may take me a little while.”
She went on through into the bedroom and closed the door.
I settled down in the chair, picked up a magazine, held it open so I could bury myself in it at an instant’s notice, and made a mental survey of the apartment.
She hadn’t been there long. The place hadn’t as yet taken on any of her individuality. There were a few magazines on the table. Her name printed on the back of one showed she was a subscriber. Yet there were no back copies visible in the apartment. I’d have bet money she hadn’t been living there more than six weeks.
It was about five minutes later that she emerged triumphantly from the bedroom. “It took me a little while,” she said, “but I have it — only it doesn’t give the room number. I thought it did. It gives the name of the building.”
I took out my notebook and fountain pen.
She unfolded the letter. From where I sat, it looked like a woman’s handwriting. She said, “Archibald C. Smith is in — oh, shucks!”
“What’s the matter?”
She said, “His office building isn’t given here. I thought it was. I’ll have to look it up in my address book. I thought it was in the letter. I remember now, he gave me his address just before he left, and I wrote it down in my address book. Just a minute.”
She took the letter with her, re-entered the bedroom, and popped out a second or two later turning the pages of a small, leather-covered address book. She dropped the letter on the table.