Jacobs ran his fingers through his thinning hair.
“I can’t remember.”
“Did you toss it in the fireplace?”
“No, I don’t think so. I probably dropped it in the wastebasket. The maid cleans my apartment each day.”
“Then where would this type of rubbish go?”
“Down to the janitor, who would burn it in the incinerator.”
Bob reached for the telephone on the other table.
“Give me the number of your apartment house,” he urged, and Jacobs supplied the needed information.
The building superintendent answered and Bob’s words fairly tumbled over the wire.
“This is Bob Houston, a federal agent speaking,” he said. “Get hold of your janitor at once. Don’t allow him to burn any more waste paper or refuse of any type from the floor on which Arthur Jacobs lives. I’ll be there within half an hour to check up on you.”