I waited for nearly ten minutes, then she came out, carrying two large paper bags. This time she went only half a block. The sign on the door said, “Light housekeeping apartments.”
I jumped out of the car, walked rapidly to the grocery store, bought a ten-cent can of condensed milk, went down to the rooming-house. A woman was sweeping the corridor. I held out the can of milk with an ingratiating grin, and asked, “Where can I find the woman who just came in with the groceries?”
The woman paused in her sweeping, looked up, saw the can of milk.
“What’s the matter? Did she drop something?”
“Apparently so.”
“I think she’s in apartment Two-A,” she said. “That’s right upstairs and on the front.”
I thanked her, climbed halfway up the stairs, waited until I heard the swish-swish-swish of the broom cease, and heard the click of a door. Then I ran back down, jumped into my car, tossed the can of milk into the back, and went to the telephone office.
“Long distance,” I said, “station-to-station call. The number of the B. Cool Detective Agency in Los Angeles. Make it snappy.”
Elsie Brand came on the line almost as soon as central got the Los Angeles connection.
“Hello, Elsie. How’s the sex appeal?” I asked.