She untensed enough to laugh. “All right.”
The phone rang. It was Pat Ashmore.
“I’m wearin’ those new brogans already, Gil.”
“Find him?”
“Lemme read ya, right off his trip-record card: ‘Trip number eight. Eleven twenty-five ayem. One passenger. No bags. From Hotel Brulard. To Gotham Athletic.’”
“Yair?”
“Wait. This is what the jockey says. She asks him to wait. She goes inside. Comes right out again. Says to the jock, ‘They don’t know where he is! Dear Lord, isn’t there anybody who can help me?’”
“Give that man five silver dollars. He’s earned it, Pat.”
“There’s more. Lissen. The hackie gets worried about her. Asks what can he do to help her. She answers nobody can help her, really. Finely she decides he should drop her at the Continental Television Building. So that’s what he does. At eleven forty-five. Fare, seventy cents.”
“Neat and complete.” In jest I added, “How big a tip?”