Suddenly Crane smiled. Then he chuckled. Then he took an address book out of his desk drawer and thumbed through the pages.
Frank Corson stared dejectedly at the carpet in Rhoda Kane's apartment. "I tried," he said. "I tried damned hard. But it just didn't do any good."
Rhoda sat beautifully poised, a picture of sophisticated perfection. She wore an obviously expensive costume featured by lounging slacks that could have been molded to her body. The afternoon sun glinted on a hairdo right out of Vogue or Harper's Bazaar. Her expression was distant; a look of impersonal pity showed on her face as she regarded Frank.
"Tell me about it, sweetie."
Frank cringed inwardly at the appellation. In Manhattan, everyone called everyone else sweetie.
"There wasn't much to it. I called Taber and then went down to see him. I told him exactly how I felt about things and demanded more information."
Rhoda frowned. "You demanded? Frank! I'm disappointed in you. The indignant citizen bit, I suppose. Don't you know how to talk to people? Your bedside manner must be tremendous."
"Rhoda! For God's sake!"
She brushed his anger away with a graceful, deprecating wave of her hand. "What did you say to him?"