Mona was a step ahead of me most of the time.
“If it’s a Miss Ruth Moore, I want the address, too.” It was.
Moore, Ruth, residence, four twenty-nine West Seventy-Fifth,” Mona reported, after a chat with some chum in the traffic supervisor’s office. “By the by, somebody in 21CC wants me to locate you, Mister V.”
“You tried. You failed. You’re sorry. Thanks. Go home now, or wherever it is you go Saturday nights.”
“Puh-leeze, Mist -er Vine.”
I cabbed up to Seventy-Fifth, phoned from a basement beer and grill just off Broadway, had no answer for my nickel.
Four twenty-nine was a four-story brownstone, sedate and dignified. Four mailboxes, buttons to press under each one. Name cards above the buttons. R. Moore, engraved, was Apt. 2.
I pushed the button. Waited.
The street door, which ought to have been latched at that time of night, was hooked back because of the heat. I climbed stairs smelling of soap powder and furniture oil. The door to the second-floor apartment was open a crack. Warm light spilled out into the dark hall; a radio or a phonograph was playing Nobody’s Sweetheart Now.
I thumbed the buzzer. It was out of order or else it didn’t make enough noise for me to hear out in the hall.