Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

But would such an act result in the rescue of Christine? Was she really here? It would never do to make a mistake and lose what little advantage he had gained thus far. He would, if he failed to find the girl, merely warn the criminals that the law was hot on their trail.

No, the idea which was formulating, thanks to Mr. Durant’s assistance, was by far the best. He must somehow manage to get a job here and survey the situation carefully before he made any rash moves.

Money was no object. If nothing better offered, perhaps he could bribe Durant to let him take his job for a week or two. At least, he should be able to use the clerk as a source of information. But he had to make sure of the fellow, first.

“Ha!” chuckled Mr. Durant. “I’m going to help you. What’s your name?”

Harry started. The first name which rose to his lips was his own, and that would never do. He cast wildly about for a suitable cognomen. The only name which suggested itself was the name MacCray had given him at the department store that morning.

“Jones,” he said aloud. “Harry Jones. Call me Harry.”

He had given his own Christian name purposely; he knew that he would not be caught napping by failing to respond to it. Otherwise, he was now a complete creation of Chief MacCray, name, identity, and physical characteristics. Harry Lethrop, the material witness in the Keene murder case, had dropped out of existence.

“All right, Harry. Listen to me? Mr. Starlatch spoke to me only this morning about hiring a night man. This is a new place, it ain’t completely filled up yet, and he has to go easy on the expenses. I’m working for less than I’m worth right now. Ha! Never mind that. Anyway, we need a sort of combination night clerk and elevator man. If you’d work reasonably, I guess I could get you the job. Would that do you any good — working here from six to six?”

“Would it? Just try me!” said Harry fervently.

“There wouldn’t be much to do after ten o’clock. I figure you can make some plan to talk to your girl over the phone, or meet her in one of the corridors, or something. Say, do her folks know you?”

“Not by sight.”

“That’s fine. Wait here while I go talk to Mr. Starlatch.”

“You were yelling for him awhile ago. What if—”

“He didn’t come out of his office. Ha! You’ll have to admit you were acting cuckoo. Being in love makes a fellow real batty, don’t it?”

“It certainly does,” agreed Harry fervently.

“I’ll be right back,” promised Durant, vaulting the counter. “If anybody comes in after their keys or their mail, ask them their name. You’ll find a card hanging on the key rack with the names of the tenants and their apartments.”

Willingly Harry accepted the task.

“Mum’s the word,” he cautioned his new friend. “This is strictly between us.”

“You bet it is, kid. Leave it to me. Ha!”

Mr. Durant jerked himself through the door leading to the owner’s office, and Harry immediately installed himself behind the counter. He wasted no time finding the indexed card and searching feverishly for a certain name.

His luck had been so phenomenal that he feared a sudden check. But no, there was the name he sought — Antonio Carlotti, Suite 307. He looked quickly at his sheet of paper. The name was the same.

A rapid buzzing caused him to start. He looked up and saw that the sound came from a small telephone switchboard at the end of the counter. He approached and glanced at it. It was the type of board found in office buildings and apartment houses, a hoard with ten sets of jacks and some forty numbers on it. There were two trunk lines, their telephone numbers just above them, which entered the board in the lower right-hand corner. It was the light above one of these which was glowing, indicating a call from outside.

Harry hesitated an instant and then thrust one of the outer jacks into the hole, slipped the received over his head, pressed the proper key, and answered the call.

“Bon Ton Apartments,” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Three hundred and seven,” an energetic voice spoke crisply in his ear.

“I beg pardon?” answer Harry, nonplused for the moment.

“Connect me with 307 — Carlotti’s apartment,” the voice crackled impatiently.

Harry was electrified. For an instant his fingers were all thumbs. At last he managed to plug the inner jack of the proper pair into the hole marked “307” and then pressed the inner key on the board to ring the apartment. Almost instantly a man’s voice answered the call. Shamelessly Harry left his key open and listened in.

“Hello!”

“Carlotti?”

“Yas.”

“Neal there?”

“No, sir. He justa lef’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure? Sure. He was here coupla hour, but all gone now.”

“He is on his way here,” decided the gentleman of the crisp voice. “All right, never mind.”

“Wassa mat?” demanded Carlotti, his accent thickening in excitement.

“Nothing,” replied the other curtly. “Don’t flare up. Everything all right there?”

“Oh, sure, yas, sir.”

“Gentle treatment, mind! You know me!”

“Oh, sure. You bet. Everything all wat you calla okayed.”