McGreavy walked into the hospital room and took one look at the unoccupied bed and the empty closet. “Fan out,” he said to the others. “You might still catch him.” He scooped up the phone. The operator connected him with the police switchboard. “This is McGreavy,” he said rapidly. “I want an all-points bulletin put out. Urgent… Dr. Stevens, Judd, Male. Caucasian. Age…”
The taxi pulled up in front of Judd’s office building. From now on, there was no safety for him anywhere. He could not go back to his apartment. He would have to check into some hotel. Returning to his office was dangerous, but it had to be done this once.
He needed a phone number.
He paid the driver and walked into the lobby. Every muscle in his body ached. He moved quickly. He knew he had very little time. It was unlikely that they would be expecting him to return to his office, but he must take no chances. It was now a question of who got him first. The police or his assassins.
When he reached his office, he opened the door and went inside, locking the door after him. The inner office seemed strange and hostile, and Judd knew that he could not treat his patients here any longer. He would be subjecting them to too much danger. He was filled with anger at what Don Vinton was doing to his life. He could visualize the scene that must have occurred when the two brothers went back and reported that they had failed to kill him. If he had read Don Vinton’s character correctly, he would have been in a towering rage. The next attack would come at any moment.
Judd went across the room to get Anne’s phone number. For he had remembered two things in the hospital.
Some of Anne’s appointments were scheduled just ahead of John Hanson’s.
And Anne and Carol had had several chats together; Carol might have innocently confided some deadly information to Anne. If so, she could be in danger.
He took his address book out of a locked drawer, looked up Anne’s phone number, and dialed. There were three rings, and then a neutral voice came on.
“This is a special operator. What number are you calling, please?”
Judd gave her the number. A few moments later the operator was back on the line. “I am sorry. You are calling a wrong number. Please check your directory or consult Information.”
“Thank you,” Judd said. He hung up. He sat there a moment, remembering what his answering service had said a few days ago. They had been able to reach all his patients except Anne. The numbers could have been transposed when they were put in the book. He looked in the telephone directory, but there was no listing under her husband’s name or her name. He suddenly felt that it was very important that he talk to Anne. He copied down her address: 617 Woodside Avenue, Bayonne, New Jersey.
Fifteen minutes later, he was at an Avis counter, renting a car. There was a sign behind the counter that read: “We’re second, so we try harder.” We’re in the same boat, thought Judd.
A few minutes later, he drove out of the garage. He rode around the block, satisfied himself that he was not being followed, and headed over the George Washington Bridge for New Jersey.
When he reached Bayonne, he stopped at a filling station to ask directions. “Next corner and make a left—third street.”
“Thanks.” Judd drove off. At the thought of seeing Anne again, his heart began to quicken. What was he going to say to her without alarming her? Would her husband be there?
Judd made a left turn onto Woodside Avenue. He looked at the numbers. He was in the nine hundred block. The houses on both sides of the street were small, old, and weatherbeaten. He drove to the seven hundred block. The houses seemed to become progressively older and smaller.
Anne lived on a beautiful wooded estate. There were virtually no trees here. When Judd reached the address Anne had given him, he was almost prepared for what he saw.
617 was a weed-covered vacant lot.