"Oh, is that you, Mr. Blakeson?" she chirruped. "I knew you by the description." Ouch! "I'm sorry I can't connect you with Mr. Cleaver. Do you want to talk to Mr. Hawkins?"
"Yeah," I said. "Gimme."
Hawkins was the amateur star-gazer working in Westville as a lay member of the Midland observatory staff. He owed his reputation to Hank and his income to me.
But he turned out to be a perfect bust, and I don't mean the Venus de Milo.
He said, "Hank Cleaver? No, Jim, I haven't seen him for—oh, several days. I don't know where he is. But why do you want him? What's the matter? Is anything wrong?"
"Is anything," I countered, "right? Look, Hawkins, take a run out to his farm. Find Hank and tell him I've got to see him immedi—Who's there?"
"Nobody," said Hawkins querulously, "but our party-line subscribers. They're always listening in. What's ailing you, Jim?"
"I wasn't talking to you. There's somebody at the door of my apartment. Who's there?" I bawled again.
No answer. So I said to Hawkins,
"Well—do what I say. Find Cleaver. Tell him I've got to see him immediately, if not sooner. And let me know the minute you find him. So long—Oh, wait a minute, can't you?"