“It won’t be necessary,” he told her, and hung up. He took out the alphabetical directory and searched through the L’s. This yielded a N.W. 18th Street address for John P. Ludlow. Shayne dialed it, and another woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Ludlow.”
She said, “He’s not here,” and hung up.
Shayne settled back and rubbed his jaw reflectively. It looked as though he had struck pay dirt. He got up abruptly and went into the outer office where he paused at Lucy Hamilton’s desk and said, “If Tim calls, tell him his car is parked in front where it was before. Here are the keys.” He tossed them on the desk, looked at his watch, and added, “You stay in till I get back, huh? Have some lunch sent in. There may be some calls.”
“Of course. But Michael—”
“Hold the questions, angel,” he said on his way to the door, “until I get some answers.”
“Oh! You!” she flung after him.
Shayne closed the door quietly but firmly on her protests, and long-legged it to the elevator.
At the parking-lot, an excited attendant hurried over to tell him that the police had been going over his car. Shayne got behind the wheel and started the motor, saying, “It’s okay, Jim,” and drove away.
The Ludlows’ number on 18th Street was a small stucco bungalow in the middle of a row of small stucco bungalows. A little girl of three or four was making sand pies in a sandbox under a coconut palm in the unkempt yard. She looked up and watched Shayne gravely as he went up the walk to the front door and rang the bell.