My watch said 7:45. I entered the Ritz and sent a telegram to Miss Leeds, signing it Roy Douglas, asking her to take care of my pigeons. I wanted to get back to 35th Street as soon as possible, because it was an open question whether the note I had written to Ann would be discovered by the first squad man that got there, or hours later when the medicals started on the p.m., and I simply had to be home when the phone rang or a visitor arrived. But one little errand had first call, because it was urgent. After all, Roy Douglas was Ann’s fiance, and although it seemed incredible that he could have been coolheaded enough to sit and chin with me about pigeons just after strangling his sweetheart, I had to make sure if I didn’t want to make a double-breasted boob of myself. So I went for a phone book and a phone.
It took nearly three-quarters of an hour. First I dialed the number of the National Bird League on the chance that someone might be working late, but there was no answer. Then I went to it. I tried the
