A Jack Dylan Adventure
By Dixon Kinqade
I'd spent the day trying to decide how to spend the day. I finally convinced myself that Sunday afternoon was a good time to keep up with neglected bookkeeping. I only got as far as the office door because a special delivery letter was stuck in the mail slot.
I ripped it open and watched a crisp fifty-dollar bill flutter to the floor. Pinning it down with my foot, I turned to the letter, which was dated Saturday.
Dear Mr. Dylan,
Kindly investigate the party who lives at 1903 North Ogden Street to find out if his name is really Elliot Perdue and what his occupation is. Then please come to my residence at 5:00 tomorrow. I live at the home of a friend, Arthur Stewart, 33 Lemonwood Drive in the Hills. I sincerely hope $50 will be a sufficient retainer.
Sincerely yours,
Helen Asher
Judging from the tone of her letter, it was obvious that Helen Asher didn't hire private detectives very often. Nevertheless, I glanced at my watch, which said that I had to work very fast. So, I headed for 1903 North Ogden.
It turned out to be a small house near Selma Street. I got out of my car and walked up to the door. After a few short knocks, the door opened.
"Good afternoon, sir. Are you the resident here?"
"That's right. What do you want?"
"I represent the Dr. Potter Poll of Public Opinion and I'd like to ask you a couple questions regarding..."
"Sorry, but I don't have any opinions to express."
"Even the opinions of a man with no opinions are important to us. Now, if you'll just let me step inside and get out my notebook."
I rudely stuck my foot in the door, pushed him back, and stepped inside. It was a cheap gimmick, but it worked.
"There we are."
"Alright, but make it fast."
"Very well, what's your occupation?"
"I'm an investment broker."
"With which firm?"
"I'm an independent."
"I see. And what is your name, sir?"
"What do you need my name for?"
"Well, for my personal records. In case I have to come back."
"Elliot Perdue."
"Do you have any hobbies other than horse racing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Those racing forms, there on your desk."
"You're quite a character, mister. Tell me, do you often work on Sunday?"
"Well, you know how public opinion is. It goes on rain, shine, or Sunday."
"Excuse me one moment."
He started to walk away, but continued talking.
"By the way, what's your name?"
"Dylan, Jack Dylan."
"Ok, Mr. Dylan, stand still 'cause I'm not kidding about this gun. Now beat it back to whoever hired you and tell them they're being very clumsy about a very delicate situation. One more move like this and they won't get another chance."
I knew that Perdue meant business. So I left without an argument. At least, I had a repeat on the name Elliot Perdue and an occupation of bookie to give my client when I met her at five o'clock.
From the Hills, I eventually found Lemonwood Drive. Two hundred yards of palm trees stood at rigid attention while I drove through the gate and up to the house. When the butler opened the door, he stared at me like my hat was on fire.
"Yes, sir. Can I help you?"
"I'd like to see Mrs. Asher, please."
Just at that moment, a man walked up behind the butler. "Who is it?"
I stepped in and introduced myself. "I'm Jack Dylan, and you're Mr. Stewart, I presume. I'm a private investigator and I have an appointment with Mrs. Asher. Is she at home?"
"Oh Mr. Dylan, perhaps you can help. I don't know what to do. It's such a terrible thing."
"What's happened?"
"Upstairs, not less than five minutes ago, Mrs. Asher shot herself."
"Shot herself?"
"Yes, if you'll come upstairs with me, you can see for yourself."
"Sure thing."
"I'm certainly grateful for your assistance, Mr. Dylan. Here, this is her room. She's in here."
One glance was all that I required.
"Yeah, she's dead, alright. Shot herself in the left temple. Whose gun is that, Mr. Stewart?"
"That's mine. I kept it in the desk downstairs."
"Are you the one who found her?"
"No, Roberts did. I was out in the greenhouse, working with my orchids. You see, I've been out of town. I just came in this morning on the Super Chief from Chicago and I wasn't expected back until Wednesday."
"Ah, yeah, look, Mr. Stewart. Do you mind telling me how well you knew Mrs. Asher?"
"Oh, very well indeed. Ever since the accident three years ago, she's lived in my house and under my care."
"The accident?"
"Yes, that's how she got those scars on her cheek and neck. My hands were burned at the same time."
"Do you mind telling me about it?"
"Well, I was living in Canada at the time. One day, my wife, Florence, and I went to a camp near Quebec and we met Helen Asher our first day there. She was a pathetic and lonely woman, a widow. That very night, while she was visiting us in our cabin, the oil stove exploded. My wife, Florence, was killed and Mrs. Asher was severely burned. It was ghastly."
"I can imagine."
"Mrs. Asher had no one. So, I thought the least I could do was to care for her. Since I knew the accident had been caused by sheer carelessness on my part."
"You took over full responsibility for her?"
"Yes, I did everything I could think of, but she never did quite get over the shock of that night and now this has happened. Oh, it's horrible."
"Have you notified the police yet?"
"No, I?"
"Well, we'd better do it right now."
"Yes, I'll go right downstairs and call them this minute."
The dead woman on the floor had been beautiful once. There was no doubt about that. This was my client and a certain fifty-dollar bill was burning a hole in my pocket.
I walked over to her writing table and as I did, I noticed the Sunday sheet had been torn off the memo pad. That bothered me. Tomorrow should mean nothing to a suicide and yet, Mrs. Asher's memo pad showed Monday already.
The sheet was blank, but on a hunch, I tore it off and stuck it in my pocket. I was about to turn away when I saw a book of matches from the Conga Club. So I picked that up too. Then I left.
I drove around for some time, trying to figure things out. That got me nowhere fast. So, I went down to police headquarters and found Lieutenant Detective Wallace.
"It's a suicide, far as we're concerned, Jack. Everything checks out. Mrs. Asher was despondent and she killed herself. She didn't leave a suicide letter, but they don't always. How'd you get in on this?"
"She paid me fifty dollars, in advance, to air out some small-time bookie or worse, named Elliot Perdue. Incidentally, what's the background on Arthur Stewart?"
"He's a big-money fashion designer. He started the business on his wife's insurance. She died as the result of an accident in Canada. He's done a lot for Mrs. Asher because he felt responsible."
"Yeah, that's the same song and dance he gave me, but was Asher left-handed? Did Stewart come in on the Super Chief this morning and was it the butler who found the body?"
"That's all true. We checked it all. Look, Jack, do you have some good reason to suspect this isn't suicide?"
"No, not really. I have a reason, but not a good reason, and that fifty dollars in advance bothers me. Oh by the way, I've got a piece of paper that I'd like the boys in the lab to run a test on. Ok?"
"Sure, Tracy will fix you up and Dylan, I figure suicide now, but I can always change my mind later."
I went down the hall to the police laboratory and handed the blank page from the memo pad to Tracy. Ten minutes later, he explained the impression showed that a left-handed person had written a note, most likely on the previous page. It was the number Bradshaw 7711 and was written with a wide-point fountain pen.
I thanked him. Then dropped four bits in the Christmas Fund bottle and found a phone. I dialed Bradshaw 7711 and waited. I didn't have to wait long before a feminine voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hello, honey. Who's this?"
"The man in the moon. Come up and see me some other time."
"Hey, wait a minute. I like your voice. Besides, 7711 is a very lucky number."
"Uh-huh, three passes in a row. Don't let it fool ya', pal, 'cause the answer's no dice. Now, goodbye."
With that, she hung up on me. I decided that she was in no mood to play. So I dialed her back and this time I'd be strictly business.
There was no answer. I let it ring for some time, but Miss Golden Voice obviously wasn't taking any more anonymous calls. So I called it quits.
That left only a long shot, the book of matches I'd found on Mrs. Asher's desk. The Conga Club was on the strip. So I drove out there, found a parking space nearby, and went in.
I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. So, I paid a buck ten for a scotch and soda that was only worth forty cents, just to help pass the time. That's when I saw her.
The spotlight was glistening down on a set of sequined contours that would have melted the Ice Age down to a fortnight and she was singing. I knew that it was Anita, the Conga Club's featured attraction. I knew something else, too.
There was no mistaking that voice. She was the girl with the lucky phone number. I wrote her a note and called the waiter over to deliver it. Then sat back to watch her as she glided over and sidled into the chair opposite me.
"It was your penmanship that intrigued me, Mr. Dylan."
"It was your voice and so forth, mostly the so forth, that got me, Anita."
"Ah, would you care to decipher this Sanskrit you call a note? The waiter said that you wrote it."
"Sure, it says important business."
"That's an idiom. If you wanted to talk turkey, how would you translate it?"
"Do you know a woman named Helen Asher?"
"Not that I remember. Why?"
"Well, your number showed up on her memo pad. How do you account for that?"
"How should I know? Maybe she intended to call me up. Look, Mr. Dylan. You're a handsome man, but you'd look silly with your nose bent. Why do you keep sticking it into other people's business?"
"Besides being paid for it? It sometimes leads to meeting interesting and beautiful people. Present company included."
"Cut to the chase. What do you want, Dylan?"
"Mrs. Asher killed herself tonight."
"Mrs. Asher's dead?"
"Yeah, and considering that you didn't know her, you look rather put out about it."
"Alright, Dylan. You win, but let's not talk about it here. Finish your drink while I get out of this costume. Then meet me outside by the front door in ten minutes."
When she headed for the back of the club, I headed for the front. I got out the door and down to my car just in time to see her leave by the stage entrance. She jumped into a yellow convertible, ripped down the strip, and turned onto Cicero. Then she screeched to a halt in front of the Regent Apartments.
At the door, a tall sun-burned man popped up from somewhere and intercepted her. It was Elliot Perdue. A short but hot argument took place and apparently, Perdue won because they went in together.
I found the name Anita Marlowe over the mailbox for number five and got to her apartment door just as the second round started.
"No, I haven't changed my mind, Elliot."
"I've been doing a little research, since you threw me over, Anita. I've got you and your precious little plans in the palm of my hand."
"What are you talking about?"
"This little heart-shaped locket on a gold chain."
"Let me see that!"
"Oh, no. I'm not showing this little trinket until just the right moment."
"Look, Elliot. I don't know what's brewing in that slimy little brain of yours, but get this. If you try to monkey with my life again, so help me, I'll kill you. Now get out!"
"Anita, would you be interested if I told you that I knew Mrs. Asher's secret?"
"Elliot, would you be interested if I told you that Mrs. Asher killed herself tonight? That slows you down, doesn't it, bright boy?"
"Yes, but it doesn't stop me, beautiful. I'll be seeing you before you know it."
I assumed that was the end of their discussion. I ducked into an alcove and heard Anita slam the door on Perdue's coattails as he left. I was right.
Now I knew that Anita, Perdue, and a locket added up. Somehow, it equaled a bullet in the head for a scarred woman with a secret. This was finally beginning to get interesting. So I went out to my car and drove out to Stewart's house in the Hills.
"When you were here before, Dylan, I hardly realized that you were a private detective. You said that you had an appointment with Mrs. Asher. Had she hired you?"
"Yes, to investigate someone, but she didn't live long enough to give me any details."
"Now, what trouble could she have possibly been in that required the services of a private detective?"
"I don't know. Perhaps you can help me find out by answering a few questions."
"Anything, anything at all, Mr. Dylan."
"Does the name Elliot Perdue mean anything to you, Mr. Stewart?"
"Elliot Perdue? No, I'm afraid not."
"How about Anita Marlowe?"
"No, I've never heard of her."
"Do you know anything about a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain?"
"A locket? A gold locket?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Asher had a gold heart-shaped locket."
"Where'd she keep it?''
"Upstairs in her jewelry box, I should imagine."
"Come on, let's have a look. Shall we?"
"Yes."
I followed Stewart up the stairs and into Asher's room. He went over to the dresser and examined it. Then he walked over and examined the dressing table.
"It's not here, Dylan. Her jewelry box is not here. Do you think?"
"Eliot Perdue has it."
"But I can't understand?"
"That locket, what was inside it?"
"Just a picture, nothing of any value. Mrs. Asher kept it because it was the only picture of how she looked before the accident. Now, why would somebody want that?"
"I don't know, but when we get that locket, we'll get a lot of answers along with it."
Now I was more convinced than ever that Anita, Perdue, and the late Mrs. Asher's secret were all dangling from the same chain. The same chain that supported the gold locket. There was no doubt about it. So I bid Stewart goodnight and started back for town.
A moment later, I changed my mind and abruptly swung onto a shadowy side road and parked with the lights out. It had suddenly occurred to me the gallivanting Perdue might call on Mr. Stewart. If so, I wanted to be on hand.
Forty minutes later, I was ready to call off the cloak-and-dagger routine and go home. That's when I heard the sound of a powerful motor roar out of Stewart's driveway. I looked up just in time to see a long black Nash whip by with Stewart at the wheel.
From the speed of his car, I was certain that he wasn't going out for the morning paper. I was also fairly sure he wasn't going to return any time soon. I decided to go back to the house and question the butler, while I could have him to myself.
"Why no, Mr. Dylan. I haven't any idea where Mr. Stewart went. I only know that he received a telephone call. After which, he rushed out of the house and he was highly upset."
"Well, maybe some sick friend needed sitting up with, huh? Tell me, Roberts, did you ever hear of a man named Elliot Perdue?"
"Oh, yes. He called here on Mrs. Asher a few times when Mr. Stewart was away on business."
"When was the last time you saw Perdue, Mr. Roberts?"
"Yesterday, about ten o'clock."
"One thing more, did you ever see Mrs. Asher wearing a locket, a gold heart-shaped one?"
"Oh, quite often, sir. As a matter of fact, she asked me about it just yesterday morning. Shortly after Mr. Perdue left, she couldn't locate it anywhere."
"A curious coincidence, huh? Oh, by the way, what do you know about a singer named Anita?"
"I've never heard of her, sir."
"Are you sure that she's never been out here as Mr. Stewart's guest?"
"Why, I'm positive. Mr. Stewart never has any ladies out here, of any kind."
"Doesn't that strike you as being strange, Roberts? After all, Mr. Stewart's a very eligible widower."
"A widower, yes, but a philanderer no. Goodnight, sir."
As I drove back to town, I tried to figure out where Arthur Stewart had gone. I had about as much to work with as Gypsy Rose Lee after a third encore. After discluding Anita's place and the Conga Club, there was only Elliot Perdue's place on North Ogden.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked up to it, but the place was as dark and quiet as the inside of a coffin. I was about to turn back to my car when suddenly, I caught a sliver of light reflecting off the glass in Perdue's living room. Then I went around to the back.
I found the lock at the back door easy to pick. A moment later, I stepped into the living room. There I found Anita.
"Dylan! How did you know I was here?"
"Mr. Stewart told me."
"You're a liar. Arthur wouldn't?"
"Arthur?"
"I? uh? Well, you see, Mr. Stewart and I?"
"Oh, now it's Mr. Stewart, huh?"
"Shush, wait a moment. There's someone outside."
"Perdue!"
"Put out your light and when he finds you, say anything. I'll be behind the door."
Perdue walked in and didn't seem to be particularly surprised that Anita was there.
"Anita, I'm afraid you're wasting your time, my dear. While you've been here rearranging my socks, I've been talking with your boyfriend with the locket safely tucked away, right here in my pocket."
"How clever of you! How absolutely ingenious!"
"It's a bit late for nasty words between us, Anita. Possession of you is part of the bargain I struck with Mr. Stewart. You see? What are you staring at?"
That was my cue.
"My big blue eyes, Perdue. Don't move or I'll have to get rough with ya'."
"You'll do nothing of the sort."
Perdue decided to take a poke at me. That was the biggest mistake he'd made tonight. I sidestepped his clumsy attempt and popped him hard. He went down like a rock and out like a light. I pulled the locket from his pocket.
"Here we go, safe and sound."
"Which is just how I want it, Jack."
I looked up to see Anita and she was pointing a pretty little pearl-handled revolver straight at me.
"The locket, Dylan, hand it over."
I made no motion to do so.
"Come on, Jack. I get nervous with one of these things in my hand. Throw it here."
I decided that she wasn't playing around and I tossed it to her.
"Now, when I leave here, Jack, don't come after me. I'd hate to fill you full of little holes. Goodnight, dear."
When Anita stepped out of the house, I solemnly swore that I'd never trust another woman for the next hundred years. A groan from the floor brought me back to 1948 and Elliot Perdue. I knew that he'd seen the picture in the locket. So, I went to work on him.
"Come on, Perdue. Snap out of it. What was in that locket?"
"I don't remember."
"Maybe a call to Detective Wallace will refresh your memory."
"I doubt it."
"Then we better start playing games again. We'll start with one called Slap-Slap Perdue!"
"No! Get your hands off me, Dylan."
"Are you ready to start singing?"
"Yeah, I talk."
"And it better be the right tune. Why did Mrs. Asher kill herself?"
"Because she had a good reason to."
"Like what?"
"It's a long story."
"So, make it short."
"Ok, Dylan. Here it goes..."
Just then, I heard the sound of glass breaking and a fraction of a second later, three gunshots rang out. I immediately went for cover, but it was already over. I was perfectly fine, but Elliot was lying on the floor and not moving.
He had three holes in his chest and they were already beginning to surround the body in a pool of blood. I made my way to the phone and dialed Wallace. It didn't take him long to answer.
"Lieutenant Wallace speaking."
"This is Dylan. There's a dead one lying on the floor of his living room at 1903 Ogden. His name is Elliot Perdue. Three shots were fired from a closed window. I was lucky."
"Any description of the killer?"
"No, none at all. Listen, Wallace, right now I'm going after a songbird named Anita Marlowe at the Regent Apartments. Will you cover me there without any sirens?"
"Sure, Jack. I'll attend to that personally."
It was only a healthy centerfielder's peg from Perdue's house to Anita's place. When I got there, the place was dark and the yellow convertible was nowhere in sight. So, I decided to try the Conga Club.
The moment I walked in, I began to worry. If Anita wanted to get rid of the locket, she had enough time to bury the forest lawn but I didn't know Anita. She was on stage and singing in the amber spotlight. Dangling from her soft, white neck was the heart-shaped gold locket.
When she grabbed my eye, she smiled like a waiter looking for a tip and the minute she'd finished her song, she headed back in my direction. Before she got to me, I saw her signal to a gorilla in a tuxedo. He looked at her, over at my table, then left the room.
I watched Anita glide across the floor and in my direction. She was distinctly a thing of beauty. There was no denying that.
"Well, Jack, what do you think of my singing?"
"I'm just crazy about it. That and your jewelry. Especially that locket, is it a family heirloom?"
"Something like that. It was, more or less, handed down to me. From generation to generation, it's an old Spanish custom."
"Yes, so I've been told. I imagine that tradition prevents you from parting with it, huh?"
"That's right. Unless someone with oodles of money offers me lots of it in exchange. Then naturally, I'd feel obliged to part with it."
"I don't think you'd feel obliged to your mother on the second Sunday in May. Besides, I don't have oodles of money."
"You should've told me that earlier. Goodbye, good lookin'."
"Hey, wait a minute."
"We couldn't possibly do any business in a minute and don't follow me if you want to stay pretty."
She pivoted on her spiked heel and took off for her dressing room. I knew that if I followed, I was scheduled for a nasty rendezvous with an ape in a tuxedo. I wasn't about to let that stop me.
When I saw the corridor to her room was empty, I knew the setup. The gorilla would be on the other side of the door and waiting. I didn't have my gun. So, I found the nearest substitute for a black-jack.
I grabbed a full bottle of Paul Mason Champagne. Then I walked noisily down the corridor, as far as her room, and knocked. There was no answer.
I turned the knob slowly. Then kicked the door open and stood clear. It worked.
The ape's hairy hand was wrapped around a gun. I slammed the bottle down hard, knocking the gun out of his hand. That left him off balance and I hit him over the head with the champagne bottle.
The ape hit the floor and before Anita had a chance to lift him up, I ripped the locket from around her neck. I picked the gun up and hightailed it outta there. I didn't stop until I was outside the club. Then I collapsed against a store window.
I opened up the locket. Two minutes ran out on me before I realized what was wrong with the picture. Then I understood. Arthur Stewart's home in the Hills was my next stop.
Thirty minutes later, I pulled up near the place and parked. Keeping in the shadows, I approached the house. Only a bedroom and the library showed any light.
The library had French windows. When I moved up close, I was startled by the sight of a figure going through someone's desk. I stepped into the room and saw that it was my little friend Anita.
"I've got the gun this time, Anita."
"Jack!"
"Doing a little dusting, honey?"
"Don't be funny."
"I'm not trying to. Why aren't you upstairs, helping Stewart pack?"
That's when Steward walked into the picture. Unfortunately, he was standing behind me at the time and I didn't see him.
"Because I've already finished packing, Mr. Dylan, and don't turn around."
"Oh, fine, I was sucked in by a little decoy sprinkled in sequins.
"Don't mind the prose, Dylan. Just toss your gun on the couch over there."
I was in no position to argue.
"That's better. You know, Dylan, I can't say that I'm very sorry for you."
"I don't expect condolences from a character that killed a woman this afternoon and a man this evening."
Anita broke in, "Stewart, you killed Mrs. Asher?"
"Yes and that blackmailing scum Perdue, as well. Both murders were very necessary, Anita. Just as Dylan's will be. Come over here, Anita."
"Hurry, Arthur. Let's get out of here."
"Now, Mr. Dylan, it's time for you?"
Suddenly, I heard a cracking sound followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the floor. I turned around to see Anita with a bookend in her hand and Stewart's crumpled body lying at her feet. I was surprised, to say the least.
"You know, Anita, I figured you all wrong."
"Don't mention it, dear. Besides, I heard the cops coming."
"Oh, you sweet child."
I heard the front door open and footsteps echo through the house. I called out to Wallace.
"We're in the library, Wallace."
"I figured you'd be out here, Dylan, when you didn't show up at that songbird's place. So what's going on, Jack?"
"This little man on the floor, with the bump on his head, is Arthur Stewart. He killed Elliot Perdue to keep him from telling me the truth about Mrs. Asher. He's also the man who killed Mrs. Asher this afternoon."
"So, Mrs. Asher didn't commit suicide after all?"
"No, but she wasn't murdered either. She died accidentally in Canada three years ago."
"What are you talking about?"
"The woman that Stewart killed in this house and this afternoon wasn't Mrs. Asher. That was his wife, Mrs. Florence Stewart. You see, there must've been some mix-up in identifying the body at the time of the accident. Arthur and Florence had the real Mrs. Asher buried as Mrs. Stewart. Afterward, they collected the insurance. Neat, huh?"
"Yeah, but what went wrong?"
"Simple! Stewart got bored with his scarred and unattractive wife. He started running around with choice little numbers, like Anita here?"
She interrupted.
"Honestly, Jack, I didn't know anything about this. Stewart told me that Mrs. Asher depended on him heavily and she'd be crushed at him seeing another woman. I didn't know that she was actually his wife!"
Wallace cut in.
"Jack, how'd you figure this all out?"
"From a locket that belonged to the woman we knew as Mrs. Asher. It had a picture of Stewart and Mrs. Asher in dress clothes and it was taken before she was scarred. Stewart claimed that he and his wife had only met Mrs. Asher the day of the accident and on a camping trip at that."
Anita spoke up again.
"But Jack, I saw the picture too and I didn't figure that out."
"That's because you were too busy trying to figure out just how much the locket was worth in cold cash to Stewart or anybody else. You were blinded by all those dollar signs in front of your eyes, baby."
"Jack, how can you say such a thing?"
Later, Wallace and I walked outside and fired up a lung rocket. We sat down on the front steps, smoking and talking. Wallace still had a few questions that he wanted answered.
"Now, Jack. Just so I don't toss and turn all night, tell me why exactly you were hired in the first place."
"Well, it goes something like this. When Perdue saw that he was losing Anita to Stewart, he decided to check up on the opposition. He found out a lot of things he wanted to know, but he also found out a lot of things that he didn't want to know. Mrs. Stewart became suspicious because of his questioning. So, she sent for me."
"Stewart sure had me fooled, Jack. I thought he was a very generous benefactor, a good guy who was doin' the right thing for a lonely and unfortunate woman."
"Yeah, it looked like he had a heart of gold, alright. Funny thing that in the end, it was this heart of gold, this little locket, that caught him. Say, you mind if I keep it, Wallace?"
"Not at all. You had a tough enough time getting hold of it. Goodnight, Jack."
By the time I got back to my apartment, the sky was beginning to fill with the soft grey of morning. I pulled the blinds in my bedroom and sat down for one last cigarette. I'd mixed with a lot of funny people that day.
For some cockeyed reason, I kept thinking of Anita Marlowe. She was a girl who was no better than she had to be. Finally, I put her out of my mind and I was about to turn out the desk lamp. That's when I noticed my memo pad.
It was still on Sunday, which was understandable, but scrawled across the top sheet was a telephone number. I couldn't figure how it got there. Written in crimson lipstick was Bradshaw 7711.
- TERMINUS LIBRI -
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