Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.
"It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred. Tell him if he queers this—"
"I don't know but what he might have something," the voice came back over the filtered hum. "Suppose he smokes them out—"
"Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginia moonshiners."
"Don't tell me my job, Tremaine!" the voice snapped. "And don't try out your famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation."
"Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket." Tremaine hung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers of Scotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coat and left the hotel.
He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. He walked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was a once-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, its windows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in the ancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the button beside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minute before the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-boned face looked at him coolly.
"Miss Carroll," Tremaine said. "You won't remember me, but I—"
"There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James," Miss Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto. Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine thought, startled.
"I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll," he said.