“My conscience for one thing,” Salt said, climbing into the car beside Penny. “Your father’s expecting us at the theater. I’m supposed to take pictures of the visiting big-boys.”
“We’ll get there in time. This may be our only chance to trace Danny.”
“You’re a glutton for adventure,” Salt said dubiously, studying his wristwatch. “Me—I’m not so sure.”
“Danny probably won’t be hiding out at the rooming house,” Penny argued. “But someone may be able to tell us where he went.”
“Okay,” the photographer agreed, jamming his foot on the starter. “We got to make it snappy though.”
The dingy old brick apartment house at 1497 Clayton Street stood jammed against other low-rent buildings in the downtown business section.
“You wait here,” Salt advised as he pulled up near the dwelling. “If I don’t come back in ten minutes, put in a call to the police. And arrange to give me a decent burial!”
The photographer disappeared into the building.
He was back almost at once. “It was a dud,” he said in disgust. “The telegram was sent from here all right, but Danny’s skipped.”
“You talked to the building manager?”