I got to my room, flung off my robe and pajamas, climbed into my clothes, and was tying my necktie as I dashed down the stairs to the street. I buttoned my vest on the way to the corner. It seemed an age before a late-cruising taxicab came prowling along close to the curb. I signaled him and gave him the address. In the cab, I asked, “What time is it, buddy?”

“Half past two.”

My wrist watch hadn’t been good enough to pawn, but by setting it every day, I could approximate the time. Now it was on the dresser by the head of my bed. I looked through my pockets to make sure I had the certificate of appointment as a private detective which Bertha Cool had given me. I scooped the silver out of my pocket, and held it in the palm of my hand, counting it against the flicking figures which appeared on the illuminated dial of the taximeter. When the driver stopped at the address, there was five cents over. I handed him the whole collection of coins, said, “Thanks a lot, buddy,” and made a dive for the door. I almost broke my. arm. It was locked tight. The lobby was lighted, but there was no one at the little desk. I kicked against the door, hoping that Alma would hear me. She did after a while, and came out of the telephone booth and down the corridor.

I stared at her in surprise. She had on sheer silk pajamas, and some sort of a filmy gown over them. She opened the door, and I said, “Alma, what’s happened?”

“I’ve shot someone,” she said, in a hoarse whisper.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“Have you notified the police?”

“No.”

“All right, then,” I said. “We notify the police right away.”

“But Sandra wouldn’t want me to, and Bleatie says—”

“To hell with Sandra and Bleatie both,” I said. “Get in there and telephone the police.”

I piloted her back to the telephone booth.

“Donald, don’t you think I’d better tell you what—”

“If you’ve shot anyone,” I said, “you get in touch with the police and tell them the whole story.”

She turned to me and said, “I’ll have to ask you for a nickel.”

I went through my pockets. There wasn’t a coin on me. I’d given my last cent to the cab driver. I tried the telephone. It simply, positively, wouldn’t work without the coin.

“How did you telephone me?” I asked.

She said, “A man came in. He was drunk. I told him a story about my husband locking me out, and asked him for a coin so I could telephone. He gave me a nickel.”

“All right. Let’s go back up to the apartment.”

“I can’t. I haven’t my keys. There’s a spring lock on the door.”