She laughed, a nervous, high-pitched little laugh, and said, “Don’t ask me why men want to do the things they do. Well, I guess I’ve told you everything I know about Archibald Smith.”
I took the hint, got to my feet, and said, “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re — you’re here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I headed off any further questions by saying abruptly, “I suppose I’ve interfered with your evening. I hope I haven’t made you late—”
“Don’t mention it. You haven’t interfered at all. Thank you.”
She stood at the doorway and watched me down the flight of stairs. I went out through the outer door, looked up and down the street, sized up the cars that were parked near by, but couldn’t see the tall chap who had busted in on Roberta Fenn.
I had plenty of opportunity to look around, too. It was ten minutes before I was able to pick up a cab which was running empty back toward town. The cab driver assured me I was lucky. Cabs, he said, didn’t do much cruising around in that part of town.