“Who’s he?” Bauer pointed at a name which, though heavily crossed out, was still readable.
“Harry Taylor?” It was several moments before Conway was able to identify the name. “We hardly knew him. We met him once when.we had dinner with the Gordons, and then he was with them one evening when they dropped in here. That must have been almost a year ago. I don’t know why she had the name in the book.”
Bauer looked at the entry more closely. “The Hillside number was crossed out first,” he announced. “See? The hard pencil? Then the Hempstead number was crossed out the same time she crossed out the name.” It was quite obvious that this was true, but Bauer pronounced it with the air of one who had just solved the Bacon ciphers, and Conway felt unaccountably annoyed.
“I don’t know why it was there in the first place,” he said.
“You must of called him up sometime.”
“I’m sure that neither my wife nor I—” Conway began, with what he realized was too glacial a dignity. Then he remembered. “Wait a minute. George and Peggy Gordon came here for dinner one night. George had to work after dinner, so Peggy suggested we try to get this Taylor to make a fourth at bridge. I don’t remember whether my wife or Mrs. Gordon made the call. At any rate, he didn’t come over.”
“Well, makes no difference. Mind if I take this? Save me copying down all these addresses and phone numbers.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll be getting along.” The detective turned to the dresser to close the drawer. With his hands on the handles, his eyes lingered for a perceptible moment on the contents inside; then, slowly, he closed it. What caused the hesitation Conway had no way of knowing, but he felt the all too familiar tightening of his throat.
The shrill clamor of the doorbell stopped him as he followed the detective from the room. Bauer stopped at the head of the stairs to let Conway precede him.