do?
He thought of ringing Edward Reynolds at his office around 4 p.m. to ask if he had heard yet from Rowajinski, but he was afraid Mr. Reynolds would think he was meddling too much: after all, Mr. Reynolds had made it plain that he didn’t want police in on the affair even if Rowajinski contacted him and asked for a second thousand.
A little after four, Marylyn’s telephone rang and Clarence answered it.
“My mother wants to see me tonight, Clare,” Marylyn said. “You know—I told you I might have to go out. I called her but I really can’t get out of it.”
She meant she had to go to Brooklyn Heights. Tuesday evening was her regular evening to have dinner with her mother, so Clarence could hardly complain. But he was disappointed and felt cut adrift.
At 6:30 p.m., Clarence rang his precinct house again. Lieutenant Santini was there, and Clarence spoke with him. Santini said there had been no message from an Edward Reynolds.
Again Clarence repressed his urge to ring up the Reynoldses’ apartment. But maybe Rowajinski hadn’t dared ask for the second thousand. But if so, how was he going to get the dog to the Reynoldses? Or was the dog alive?
Marylyn wasn’t coming back to her apartment, but was going directly from an afternoon job to Brooklyn Heights. She’d be back before midnight, she had said, and she expected him to be there, but he wrote a note around seven to her, saying.
Darling,
Am worried about tonight and the Reynolds situation. I don’t know what will happen. I will call you between 11 and 12. I bought Ajax. Message by telephone for you.
All my love XX
Clare
He left the note on her pillow. The telephone message was from a woman who had a rental service in the Village. She needed a typing job.
Clarence walked up Eighth Avenue to 23rd Street, had a hamburger and coffee, and went to a film on the same street, mainly to kill time. It was after eleven when he came out. He went to a sidewalk telephone booth and rang up the Reynoldses.
A woman’s voice, not Greta Reynolds’s, answered. “Who is this, please?”
“Patrolman Duhamell. Can I speak to Mr. Reynolds if he’s there?”
“Oh—you’re the policeman who came to see them? . . . They’re not here now. I expect them back—after midnight.”
Clarence knew what that meant: the Pole had made the date and the Reynoldses had kept it. “I’d like to see them,” Clarence said painfully but with determination. “Can I phone again—after midnight?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“They went to get the dog, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Clarence said. “I’ll ring again.”
The woman hadn’t sounded very friendly.
Clarence walked west to Eight Avenue, then uptown. It was raining slightly, and he was wearing his overcoat, not his raincoat, but he didn’t care. At ten of twelve, he telephoned Marylyn. She was in.
“Honey—you saw my note? . . . Are you all right?”
She was all right. “What’s with the Reynolds situation?”
“They made the second date—apparently. At eleven tonight. I’m only hoping the dog is delivered at midnight. I want to find out.”
She understood. They had a date tomorrow evening. To see a play. No, Clarence wouldn’t forget.
“Where are you? . . . Are you coming down later?”
“I don’t know. Can I leave it that way?”
“Sure, darling, sure. Look out for yourself.”
Clarence was grateful. She understood. He went into a bar for a beer, and to go to the toilet. And to kill time. He killed time until a quarter to 1 a.m. Now, he thought, he could telephone the Reynoldses. Either they had their dog or they hadn’t.
Again the strange woman’s voice answered. “They’re not back yet. Greta phoned around twelve—a little after. They were going to wait a while.”
Clarence sank. “All right, I’ll be up. Tell them I’ll be up—now.” He hung up before she could protest.
Because he saw an uptown bus at once, Clarence took it. What was the hurry? Now, Clarence thought,
He thought of ringing Edward Reynolds at his office around 4 p.m. to ask if he had heard yet from Rowajinski, but he was afraid Mr. Reynolds would think he was meddling too much: after all, Mr. Reynolds had made it plain that he didn’t want police in on the affair even if Rowajinski contacted him and asked for a second thousand.
A little after four, Marylyn’s telephone rang and Clarence answered it.
“My mother wants to see me tonight, Clare,” Marylyn said. “You know—I told you I might have to go out. I called her but I really can’t get out of it.”
She meant she had to go to Brooklyn Heights. Tuesday evening was her regular evening to have dinner with her mother, so Clarence could hardly complain. But he was disappointed and felt cut adrift.
At 6:30 p.m., Clarence rang his precinct house again. Lieutenant Santini was there, and Clarence spoke with him. Santini said there had been no message from an Edward Reynolds.
Again Clarence repressed his urge to ring up the Reynoldses’ apartment. But maybe Rowajinski hadn’t dared ask for the second thousand. But if so, how was he going to get the dog to the Reynoldses? Or was the dog alive?
Marylyn wasn’t coming back to her apartment, but was going directly from an afternoon job to Brooklyn Heights. She’d be back before midnight, she had said, and she expected him to be there, but he wrote a note around seven to her, saying.
Darling,
Am worried about tonight and the Reynolds situation. I don’t know what will happen. I will call you between 11 and 12. I bought Ajax. Message by telephone for you.
All my love XX
Clare
He left the note on her pillow. The telephone message was from a woman who had a rental service in the Village. She needed a typing job.
Clarence walked up Eighth Avenue to 23rd Street, had a hamburger and coffee, and went to a film on the same street, mainly to kill time. It was after eleven when he came out. He went to a sidewalk telephone booth and rang up the Reynoldses.
A woman’s voice, not Greta Reynolds’s, answered. “Who is this, please?”
“Patrolman Duhamell. Can I speak to Mr. Reynolds if he’s there?”
“Oh—you’re the policeman who came to see them? . . . They’re not here now. I expect them back—after midnight.”
Clarence knew what that meant: the Pole had made the date and the Reynoldses had kept it. “I’d like to see them,” Clarence said painfully but with determination. “Can I phone again—after midnight?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“They went to get the dog, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Clarence said. “I’ll ring again.”
The woman hadn’t sounded very friendly.
Clarence walked west to Eight Avenue, then uptown. It was raining slightly, and he was wearing his overcoat, not his raincoat, but he didn’t care. At ten of twelve, he telephoned Marylyn. She was in.
“Honey—you saw my note? . . . Are you all right?”
She was all right. “What’s with the Reynolds situation?”
“They made the second date—apparently. At eleven tonight. I’m only hoping the dog is delivered at midnight. I want to find out.”
She understood. They had a date tomorrow evening. To see a play. No, Clarence wouldn’t forget.
“Where are you? . . . Are you coming down later?”
“I don’t know. Can I leave it that way?”
“Sure, darling, sure. Look out for yourself.”
Clarence was grateful. She understood. He went into a bar for a beer, and to go to the toilet. And to kill time. He killed time until a quarter to 1 a.m. Now, he thought, he could telephone the Reynoldses. Either they had their dog or they hadn’t.
Again the strange woman’s voice answered. “They’re not back yet. Greta phoned around twelve—a little after. They were going to wait a while.”
Clarence sank. “All right, I’ll be up. Tell them I’ll be up—now.” He hung up before she could protest.
Because he saw an uptown bus at once, Clarence took it. What was the hurry? Now, Clarence thought,
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