“What did you think he’d be like?” Johnny asked quietly. “A circus clown?”
“No,” Peggy said. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Johnny said hastily. “All great clowns are sad. Or didn’t you know that?” He took the photograph from her, slipped it into a plain Manila envelope and returned it. “Here you are,” he said. “And good luck to you. I hope you find him.”
Peggy tucked the envelope under her arm and extended her hand. “Thanks a lot,” she said warmly. “We’ll let you know how we make out.”
Johnny walked them to the door of his office. “You do that,” he said. “And when you find Tom Agate, give him my regards.” He held the door Open. “Tell him for me that he was a fool ever to have listened to Johnny Dwyer. Tell him—tell him that his friends are waiting for him. It’s been too long.” He smiled and gripped their hands in farewell.
Paradise Avenue, just beyond New York City, in Astoria, stretched out in a straight, treeless line of two-family brick houses, each set back about thirty feet from the sidewalk. In general appearance, all the buildings were pretty much alike, although here and there a gaily painted front porch and cottage shutters hinted at the presence of a more imaginative homeowner.
The street was almost deserted. But then it was nearly one-thirty. The men were away at their jobs and the children at school. Peggy looked at the envelope in her hand. The address read 3612 Paradise Avenue. The bus driver had given her precise directions. This should be the 3600 block. Peggy moved slowly down the street, searching for the first house number. There it was—3601. That meant the house she wanted must be diagonally across the street. Peggy trotted over, ticked off the numbers, and stopped in front of a reddish-brown brick house. She turned up the walk, mounted the stairs, and reached out for the bell. As she touched it, she felt a strange sense of excitement build up inside her. The bell echoed hollowly. Peggy pressed it a second time.
“Just a minute!” came a woman’s voice.
Peggy stepped back and waited. Then she saw that the brick wasn’t brick at all, but some sort of imitation material. All the houses on the block must have been built the same way. It told of a lower middle-class neighborhood that prided itself on neatness and hoped for better times to come.
Suddenly, without warning, the door swung open and Peggy was face to face with a middle-aged woman who peered at her suspiciously. When she saw her caller was a young girl, the woman opened the door a little wider.