"What'd they do, build a penthouse office on top of this old dump?" he inquired.
The elevator operator laughed as at a feeble jest. "Sure," he said airily. "General Motors is using it as a hideaway."
"No, Howie—no fooling. Look here."
Mallory stared and shook his head. "There ain't no 746. Somebody got the number wrong. Or they got the building wrong. There's nobody here by that name."
"They couldn't—printed envelopes like these."
"O. K., wise guy," said Howie. "Look for yourself."
He led the way to the short flight of iron stairs and the trap door. While Mallory stood jeering at him, Sam determinedly climbed through. There was nothing in sight but the plain flat roof. He climbed down again.
"Last letters on my last delivery and I can't deliver them," Sam Wilson said disgustedly.
"Somebody's playing a joke, maybe."
"Crazy joke. Well, so long, Howie. Some young squirt will be taking his life in his hands in this broken-down cage of yours tomorrow."