day, ” I said. “ I ’ ll be seeing you. ”
“ So long, ” he said, and I went into the outer office. Then I remembered something and came back.
“ Does the name Edna Wilson mean anything to you? ”
Phipps scowled. “ Sounds familiar, ” then he gave me a quick look. “ What ’ s the idea? She ’ s Wolf ’ s secretary, ain ’ t she? ”
I nodded. “ Who else does she run around with? ”
“ You ’ re not serious? I thought she was too homey to run around with anyone. ”
“ Wolf doesn ’ t think so. ”
“ At his age he can ’ t afford to choose. ”
“ So there ’ s no one else? ”
“ Blackley. I saw her with him once, but he ’ s as bad as Wolf. Bald, old, wrinkles and the rest. ”
“ Who ’ s Blackley? ”
“ The District Attorney. He ’ s no good. You don ’ t think there ’ s anything to it, do you? ”
I was thinking hard. “ To it? What do you mean? ”
He shrugged. “ You ’ re talking in riddles. What ’ s Edna Wilson to you? ”
“ Listen, son, ” I said, patting his shoulder, “ the whole goddamn thing ’ s a riddle. ”
Out in the street, I signalled a cab and told the driver to take me to Laurel Street. It took twelve minutes to get there and I told him to put me down at the corner.
I found the building with the roof garden halfway up the street on my right. It was a nice-looking joint and I agreed with Phipps that it would be all Tight to live in.
I walked into the lobby and went to the desk. “ Mr. Selby, ” I said.
The girl frowned. “ No Mr. Selby here, sir. ”
I said Mr. Selby was an old friend of mine and I had come two hundred miles to see him and this is where he lived. I said if she didn ’ t know the names of her clients she ’ d better call the manager.
She produced the register to prove I was wrong. Audrey Sheridan ’ s room was number 853. I said I must have made a mistake, that I was sorry and could I use the phone? She showed me where the phones were and I thanked her.
I put a call through to room 853 but there was no answer. The phone was out of sight of the girl at the desk and the elevator was right by me. I rode up to the eighth floor, walked down a long deserted corridor until I came to 853. I rapped, waited and then took out my pocketknife. I was inside in thirty seconds.
The red and cream sitting room was pleasant and livened by flowers in squat pottery vases. A faint smell of lilac gave the right feminine touch.
I put my hat on the walnut settee and searched the room from wall to wall. I opened every drawer, cupboard, box, trunk and subjected its contents to examination by eyes and fingers. I tested every piece of clothing for telltale bulges or for the sound of crinkling paper. I looked under rugs and furniture. I pulled down blinds to see that nothing had been rolled up in them for concealment. I examined dishes and pans and food and food-containers. I opened the flush-box in the bathroom and looked out of windows to see that nothing was hung below them on the outside. I took the apartment to pieces systematically, but I didn ’ t find the three photographs nor Mary Drake ’ s handkerchief.
I hadn ’ t made more mess than necessary, but I had made a mess. I stood looking around the room, a little tired and depressed. Although I hadn ’ t found what I had come for I had managed to create a picture of Audrey Sheridan by her possessions. Her clothes for one thing. A woman ’ s clothes can be an indication of her character —especially her underwear. Audrey Sheridan ’ s underwear was spartan in its severity—no lace, no colours, no fancy cut. Her clothes were-ultra smart. Tailored suits, three or four pairs of flannel trousers in various shades, high-neck jumpers, bright-coloured shirts. All smart and all carefully chosen.
Her cosmetics comprised cold cream, lipsticks and lilac scent. The apartment was full of books. Even books in the kitchen and bathroom. There was a radio on the table by the window and a big
“ So long, ” he said, and I went into the outer office. Then I remembered something and came back.
“ Does the name Edna Wilson mean anything to you? ”
Phipps scowled. “ Sounds familiar, ” then he gave me a quick look. “ What ’ s the idea? She ’ s Wolf ’ s secretary, ain ’ t she? ”
I nodded. “ Who else does she run around with? ”
“ You ’ re not serious? I thought she was too homey to run around with anyone. ”
“ Wolf doesn ’ t think so. ”
“ At his age he can ’ t afford to choose. ”
“ So there ’ s no one else? ”
“ Blackley. I saw her with him once, but he ’ s as bad as Wolf. Bald, old, wrinkles and the rest. ”
“ Who ’ s Blackley? ”
“ The District Attorney. He ’ s no good. You don ’ t think there ’ s anything to it, do you? ”
I was thinking hard. “ To it? What do you mean? ”
He shrugged. “ You ’ re talking in riddles. What ’ s Edna Wilson to you? ”
“ Listen, son, ” I said, patting his shoulder, “ the whole goddamn thing ’ s a riddle. ”
Out in the street, I signalled a cab and told the driver to take me to Laurel Street. It took twelve minutes to get there and I told him to put me down at the corner.
I found the building with the roof garden halfway up the street on my right. It was a nice-looking joint and I agreed with Phipps that it would be all Tight to live in.
I walked into the lobby and went to the desk. “ Mr. Selby, ” I said.
The girl frowned. “ No Mr. Selby here, sir. ”
I said Mr. Selby was an old friend of mine and I had come two hundred miles to see him and this is where he lived. I said if she didn ’ t know the names of her clients she ’ d better call the manager.
She produced the register to prove I was wrong. Audrey Sheridan ’ s room was number 853. I said I must have made a mistake, that I was sorry and could I use the phone? She showed me where the phones were and I thanked her.
I put a call through to room 853 but there was no answer. The phone was out of sight of the girl at the desk and the elevator was right by me. I rode up to the eighth floor, walked down a long deserted corridor until I came to 853. I rapped, waited and then took out my pocketknife. I was inside in thirty seconds.
The red and cream sitting room was pleasant and livened by flowers in squat pottery vases. A faint smell of lilac gave the right feminine touch.
I put my hat on the walnut settee and searched the room from wall to wall. I opened every drawer, cupboard, box, trunk and subjected its contents to examination by eyes and fingers. I tested every piece of clothing for telltale bulges or for the sound of crinkling paper. I looked under rugs and furniture. I pulled down blinds to see that nothing had been rolled up in them for concealment. I examined dishes and pans and food and food-containers. I opened the flush-box in the bathroom and looked out of windows to see that nothing was hung below them on the outside. I took the apartment to pieces systematically, but I didn ’ t find the three photographs nor Mary Drake ’ s handkerchief.
I hadn ’ t made more mess than necessary, but I had made a mess. I stood looking around the room, a little tired and depressed. Although I hadn ’ t found what I had come for I had managed to create a picture of Audrey Sheridan by her possessions. Her clothes for one thing. A woman ’ s clothes can be an indication of her character —especially her underwear. Audrey Sheridan ’ s underwear was spartan in its severity—no lace, no colours, no fancy cut. Her clothes were-ultra smart. Tailored suits, three or four pairs of flannel trousers in various shades, high-neck jumpers, bright-coloured shirts. All smart and all carefully chosen.
Her cosmetics comprised cold cream, lipsticks and lilac scent. The apartment was full of books. Even books in the kitchen and bathroom. There was a radio on the table by the window and a big
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