“I’ll slam you one in the nose! What does she look like?”
“Well, now,” reflected Officer Jennings, “it seems to me she’s cross-eyed, knock-kneed, and⸺”
“Aw, go jump a fence!” Dave Cates turned disgustedly away, handed the boy a quarter, and watched him scurry away.
“I guess she’s all right, Dave,” said Jennings. “Honest, I’ve never seen her. I’ve only been on the beat for two weeks.”
They were talking as though Cates’ narrow escape was a thing far in the past. So it must be, in the big stations where an officer’s life is a thing of uncertainty. Once past, a thing is forgotten, or, at most, but lightly spoken of.
Casually the small radio cop fingered his tie and ran a hand over his sandy hair.
“Better go easy, lad,” warned Captain Henessey. “This may be just a come-on note.”
“I know,” nodded Cates. Beneath his armpit he could feel the bulge of the big police gun. “I’ll watch my step, captain.”
Standing before the old brick apartment house on North Street, Dave Cates debated with himself. Should he go in, or shouldn’t he? It wasn’t the thought of a possible frame-up that deterred him; it was the possibility that the girl of the Salon Quintesse might not care to see him. But what the deuce? Might as well see it through.