He took the drink from Ray and slid off the bar stool. Two steps away he remembered one more little fact.
He didn't have her number, and he didn't know anything about where she lived, except that it could be reached by subway. That, Malone told himself morosely, limited things nicely to the five boroughs of New York.
And she'd said she was living with her aunt. Would she have a phone listing under her own name, or would the listing be under her aunt's name—which he also didn't know?
At any rate, he could check listings under Dorothy Francis, he told himself.
He did so.
There were lots and lots of people named Dorothy Francis, in Manhattan and in all the other boroughs.
Malone frowned thoughtfully. I wish somebody would tell me how to get in touch with her, he thought. She might know more about that book than I do.
The thought bothered him. But, to offset it, there was a nice new feeling growing at the back of his mind.
He felt as if he were going to know the answer soon enough.
He felt as if he were going to be lucky again.