I spoke to the phone: “Mr. Wolfe says he wants them if they’re in good condition, Mr. Dawson. I’ll come and take a look at them. You can expect me in fifteen minutes.”
I hung up and marched out. One of the things I didn’t like about it was that if Cramer decided to get suspicious it would be a cinch for him to step to the phone and have the call traced, but by the look on his face I judged that his mind was occupied with other affairs.
At the curb in front, Cramer’s car was nosing the roadster’s tail. I nodded a cheerful greeting to the two dicks on the driver’s seat, hopped in the roadster, and rolled. It wasn’t likely that they had any instructions that would cause them to follow me, but I made sure by circling into 34th Street and halting for a couple of minutes, and then headed downtown. At that time of a July Sunday afternoon the streets were nearly deserted, and I had only a little more than a mile to go. I parked where I had the day before, a little distance east of the address, trotted to the vestibule and pushed the button under Dawson, opened the door when I heard the click, and mounted the two flights.
At the door at the end of the hall, which was halfway open, I was confronted by two evidences of violence. A panel of the door and part of its frame was in splinters. That was one. The other was Fred Durkin’s face. The left side of his jaw was swollen, and there was a bruise on his right temple with the skin raw.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re the corpse, huh?”
“Huh yourself,” he retorted with Irish wit. “Look at this.” I followed him inside, and saw more evidences of violence. A table and a chair had been overturned and a couple of rugs were messed up, and lying there on the floor was Glenn Prescott. His eyes were open, staring up at us. His face was in much worse shape than Fred’s, and there was blood here and there, mostly on his collar and tie and the front of his shirt.
“He came to,” Fred said, “but he won’t talk. I wiped some blood off his face, but it dribbles out of his nose.”
Prescott let out a moan. “I’ll — talk,” he mumbled thickly. “I’ll talk if — I can. I’m afraid I’m hurt — internally.” His hand groped around his belly. “He hit me there.”
I knelt beside him and felt his pulse. Then I started feeling and poking all around. He winced and said ouch and moaned, but I couldn’t find any indication of agony. Fred brought me a wet towel and I cleaned his face off some.
I stood up. “I don’t think you’re hurt much, but of course I’m not sure. He didn’t hit you with anything but his fists, did he?”