He mopped the perspiration from his face and hands. He’d have to cool off a bit in these three blocks. It would be natural to be perspiring somewhat, to be a little out of breath, when he arrived, but his present condition could hardly be excused by a three-block walk. He went over the details of what he would say. Everything had gone as scheduled, so far, exactly according to plan.
His legs still ached and his clothing was moist, but he had regained his breath and the perspiration did not show when he arrived at the station. The sergeant at the desk looked up over his paper with some annoyance as Conway came up to him. The after-dinner rush of stolen car reports was over, and it would be a little while before the drunks started being hauled in; this was his rest period, and he disliked having it broken in on.
“Sergeant, my wife’s disappeared, and so has my car.” Conway found that he did not have to simulate his breathlessness.
“Yeah? What happened?”
Conway related the story, much as he had before. “And after the police car drove off, I looked around some more,” he concluded. “Then a streetcar came along, and I decided I wanted to report it, so I jumped on the car and came down here.”
“Why don’t you call up and see if she’s home now?” the sergeant suggested.
“I did once, but — what time is it?” They both looked at the clock above the desk. “Ten twenty-four. I’ll try it again.”
“There’s a phone booth in the hall,” the sergeant said, and returned to his newspaper.
Conway dialed the number and, because the time had now been established and there was no longer need for haste, let it ring half a dozen times before he returned to the desk. “No answer,” he said.
The sergeant reluctantly put aside his paper and reached for a form. “Sure you want to do this now?” he asked. “Why don’t you wait till morning? She probably just drove off with somebody to have a drink.”