"You ought to know, Sam," said Ed, the day barkeep. "You were a postman long enough."
"If I knew, I wouldn't ask."
"Ask Information on the phone."
"He hasn't got a phone." That was the weirdest part of it—a business office without a phone.
In every bar, at every moment, there is somebody who knows all the answers. This somebody, a nondescript fellow nursing a Collins down the bar, spoke up: "It could be unlisted."
Sam's acquaintance didn't include people with unlisted phones; he hadn't thought of that.
"Then how do you find out his number?"
"You don't, unless he tells you. That's why he has it unlisted."
The police could get it, Sam thought. But they wouldn't, without a reason.
"Hey, maybe this guy's office is in one of them flying saucers and he forgot to come down and get his mail," Ed suggested brightly.