"Sorry we couldn't help you."
He went out slowly.
872 Maple was a rambling frame house dozing on a wide flower-bordered lot. There was nothing sleepy about the diminutive woman who opened the door to Jim's knock. Snapping black eyes peered at him from a maze of wrinkles. A veined hand moved swiftly to smooth down the white hair that framed her face.
"Looking for someone, young man?"
"Just information, Mrs.—"
"Collins, and it's Miss. Don't give out information about guests. You a bill collector?"
"No, Miss Collins. As a matter of fact, I'm trying to check up on an old friend I lost track of. Helen Simmons. She lived at this address for a while."
"Sure did. Well, come on in. Mind you, I don't usually do this, Mr.—"
"Blair." Without any fanfare a bill changed hands.