“What’s the location?”
“Tenth floor; north side. He had insisted on both details. Nos. 1015, 1017.”
“What neighbors?”
“Bond salesman on one side, Reverend and Mrs. Salisbury, of Wilmington, on the other.”
“Um-m-m. What across the street?”
“How should I know? You didn’t tell me to ask.”
“It’s the Glenargan office building, just opened, Mr. Jones,” volunteered the manager.
Average Jones turned again to the window, closed it and fastened his handkerchief in the catch. “Leave that there,” he directed the manager. “Don’t let any one into this room. I’m off.”
Stopping to telephone, Average Jones ascertained that there were no vacant offices on the tenth floor, south side of the Glenargan apartment building, facing the Nederstrom Hotel. The last one had been let two weeks before to—this he ascertained by judicious questioning—a dark, foreign gentleman who was an expert on rugs. Well satisfied, the investigator crossed over to the skyscraper across from the Palatia. There he demanded of the superintendent a single office on the third floor, facing north. He was taken to a clean and vacant room. One glance out of the window showed him his handkerchief, not opposite, but well to the west.
“Too near Fifth Avenue,” he said. “I don’t like the roar of the traffic.”