“Archie?”
“Me talking.”
“You’d better come up here right away.”
Then I was sure of it, I asked wearily, “Which precinct?”
“No, listen. Come on up here. 913 West 11th, an old brownstone. I’m here and I’m not supposed to be. Push the button under Dawson and up two flights. I’ll let you in.”
“What the hell kind of a—”
“You come on, and step on it.”
The connection clicked off. I said something expressive. Fritz giggled, and I threw a roll at him which he caught with one hand and threw back, but missed me. I had to gulp the coffee, and it was as hot as hell’s dishwater. Giving Fritz a message for Wolfe, I stopped in at the office for my shoulder strap and automatic just in case, trotted a block to the garage to get the roadster, and headed downtown.
But nobody got shot. I parked a hundred feet east of the number on 11th Street, mounted the stoop to the old-fashioned vestibule, punched the button under Earl Dawson, pushed through when the click came, and went up two flights of narrow dark stairs. A door at the end of the hall opened cautiously and gave me a glimpse of Fred’s map of Ireland. I walked to it, shoved it open and went in, and closed it again.
Fred whispered, “Jesus, I didn’t know what to do.”