“I want in!”
“For what?”
“To see Mrs. Jaffee. I’m expected.”
“At this time of night? Nuts. What’s your name?”
It was hopeless. This one had never seen me; he had not been on duty when I came Wednesday morning. He was obviously an underbrained dope. It would take minutes to explain, and he wouldn’t believe me. If I persuaded him to ring her on the house phone and there was no answer, he would probably say she was asleep. I took the gun from my pocket, let him see what it was, knocked a hole in the glass with it, reached through and opened the door, and entered. As I did so I heard the engine of the taxi roaring, and a glance over my shoulder showed it stalling off. That boy had fast reflexes.
I was pointing the gun at the dope, and he was standing with his arms straight up as far as he could reach. There wasn’t a chance in a million that he was accoutered, but I gave him a few quick pats to make sure. “Have you seen Mrs. Jaffee in the last half-hour? Or heard her? Talk fast. Have you?”
“No! She came—”
“Into the elevator. Step on it! Sixth floor.”
He obeyed. We started up. “You’re crazy,” he said. “That hackie will have a cop here in no time.”
I saved my breath. The cage stopped. “On out,” I told him, “and to Six B.” He hooked the door open and preceded me along the hall. At the door of 6B he put his thumb to the button.