He stood motionless, by the window, staring out; moved by the histrionic emotionalism that was almost his soul to stiffen his shoulders like a king's. Out there—beyond old Washington Square where the first buds of spring tipped the trees—beyond the glimpse, down a red-brick vista of the Sixth Avenue Elevated—still beyond and on, were, he knew, the dusty wandering streets, the crumbling houses with pasts, the flimsy apartment buildings decorated in front with rococo fire escapes, the bleak little three-cornered parks, the devastating subway excavations of Greenwich Village. Somewhere in that welter of poverty and art, at this very moment (unless she had walked up-town) was Sue Wilde. He tried to imagine just where. Perhaps in the dim little rear apartment she shared with Betty Deane, waiting for Zarin.
His gaze wandered down to the Square. There was Zanin, crossing it, under the bare trees.
His grip on the poker relaxed. He moved toward the telephone; glanced out again at the swift-striding Zanin; then with dignity, replaced the poker by the fireplace, consulted the telephone book and called up Sue's apartment.
Sue herself answered.
“This is Eric Mann,” he told her. “I want very much to talk with you”—his voice was none too steady—“about the scenario.”
“Well”—over the wire he could feel her hesitation—“if it is important....”
“I think it is.”
“Any time, almost, then...
“Are you busy now?”
“Why—no.”