He then visited Lane Cross’s studio, posing as a newspaper interviewer. Mr. Cross was out of town, so the elevator man said. His studio was closed.
Mr. Kennedy meditated on this fact for a moment.
“Does any one use his studio during the summer months?” he asked.
“I believe there is a young woman who comes here—yes.”
“You don’t happen to know who it is?”
“Yes, I do. Her name is Platow. What do you want to know for?”
“Looky here,” exclaimed Kennedy, surveying the rather shabby attendant with a cordial and persuasive eye, “do you want to make some money—five or ten dollars, and without any trouble to you?”
The elevator man, whose wages were exactly eight dollars a week, pricked up his ears.
“I want to know who comes here with this Miss Platow, when they come—all about it. I’ll make it fifteen dollars if I find out what I want, and I’ll give you five right now.”
The elevator factotum had just sixty-five cents in his pocket at the time. He looked at Kennedy with some uncertainty and much desire.