"Why should that sound have disturbed me so much?" she asked herself and got no answer.
One of the offices, behind which she suspected that Fred Ellers would be sitting with his tie off, not just awry as Macklin's had been, presented to her gaze only a frosted glass exterior. The door was closed and probably locked, for Ellers had a habit of locking himself in when he was hitting the bottle.
The second office, from which the sound of another clicking typewriter issued, was occupied by Ruth Porges, trim and immaculate in the stiff, tailormade suit she customarily wore as if it were some kind of uniform.
The third door was ajar and a very distinguished-looking individual sat behind it. Allen Gerstle, white-haired and bespectacled, spent a lot of time over his exposé columns. He had a rare feeling for beautiful prose, wasted perhaps at times, but Lynn knew that a good style was an asset, even when only the cafe society set was prepared to take it seriously.
Lynn found herself at the reception desk almost before she realized that she had completely traversed the corridor. Susan Weil was answering the phone, but she cupped the mouthpiece with her hand and turned from it when she saw Lynn standing at her elbow.
"Is there something—?" she asked.
"I heard a funny sound a few minutes ago," Lynn said. "It sounded like ... like...."
"I know," Susan Weil said, helping her. "I heard it too."
"Where do you think it came from?"
"How should I know?" Susan asked, annoyed by a furious buzzing from the switchboard.