“Shut up! It’s dangerous to joke about such things.”
“Who in hell said I was joking? I mean every word of it. Don’t we have to notify the police?”
I said, “Yes. But we do it my way.”
“How’s that?”
I said, “Come on. I’ll show you.”
We went into the restaurant. I asked very loudly if I could get the proprietor to telephone for a taxicab, or should I telephone for one.
He motioned toward a phone booth, and gave me the number of the cab company. I went back and called the cab office. They assured me a cab would be there within two minutes. From the booth I could watch the door of Roberta Fenn’s apartment house.
I waited until I heard the horn of the cab outside the restaurant, then dialed police headquarters, and said very casually, “Got a pencil?”
“Yes.”
I said, “The Gulfpride Apartments on St. Charles Avenue.”