“Certainly. There’s a restaurant across the street. We’ll telephone the police from there and also keep a watch on the apartment so we can see anyone who comes out.”
“Who was that person?” Bertha asked. “Do you know him — the dead man?”
“I’ve seen him before.”
“Where?”
“He came to call on Roberta Fenn last night. I think his visit was unexpected and unwelcome — and I’d seen him once before that.”
“Where?”
“The other night. I couldn’t sleep. I walked out on the balcony. He was just coming out of a bar across the street. Two women were with him, and someone was waiting for them in an automobile.”
Sudden recollection of the night before stabbed at Bertha’s memory. She said, “Was it one of the horn-blowing brigade?”
“The instigator of the damnedest horn-blowing of the evening,” I told her.
She said simply, “I’m glad he’s dead.”