“No,” was the reporter’s response. “I’ll take the subway.”
He steadied himself against the rail and fought off a spell of dizziness. He was anxious to avoid further delay. He waved his hand in a friendly manner and went down the steps, trying to appear at his best. His head was swimming when he reached the sidewalk.
THE bright lights of the avenue confused him. He walked toward the corner, spied a drug store, and entered. As luck would have it, all the phone booths were occupied. Clyde decided to go elsewhere, but his legs seemed too weak. He sat on a stool at the soda fountain and rested, his head throbbing, all about him confusion.
Some one left a booth and Clyde staggered into the compartment. He dropped his nickel and tried to dial. There were black spots before his eyes. His finger slipped. He began again.
With great effort he managed to dial the number. He waited patiently, the ringing over the wire conflicting with the throbbing of his head. At last he heard a quiet voice, seemingly far away.
“B,” he said in response.
“Report,” came the word.
Clyde’s lips were to the mouthpiece of the phone. There was no opportunity for artfully worded phrases.
His grogginess was coming on again in this stuffy booth.
“Bodine,” he said in a low voice. “Not at Goliath. At Maurice Apartments. Phony name — Andrew Davis. On their way to get him. Hurry.”