“How? By jumping off the top of the bus? Hm-m-m!”
“Not quite, but you’re close. If another bus pulled alongside us at a stop light, he could have done it by stepping across, over the railing. I saw a man do that once. If you do it toward the rear, you stand a good chance of getting away with it entirely.”
He considered the matter. “I’m pretty sure no bus has pulled up by us. Still, he could do it to the top of a truck, too, though Lord knows how he would get off again.” He fidgeted. “Tell you what — I’m going back to the stairs and sneak a look.”
“And meet him coming down? Be your age, Brain.”
He subsided; the bus went on a few blocks. “Coming to our own corner,” he remarked.
She nodded, naturally having noticed as soon as he did that they were approaching the corner nearest the building in which their own office was located. She took out her compact and powdered her nose, a routine she had followed eight times since getting on the bus. The little mirror made a handy periscope whereby to watch the passengers getting off the rear of the bus. “There he is, Teddy!”
Randall was up out of his seat at once and hurrying down the aisle, waving at the conductor. The conductor looked annoyed but signaled the driver not to start. “Why don’t you watch the streets?” he asked.
“Sorry, buddy. I’m a stranger here myself. Come on, Cyn.”
Their man was just turning into the door of the building housing their own office. Randall stopped. “Something screwy about this, kid.”
“What do we do?”
“Follow him,” he decided.
They hurried on; he was not in the lobby. The Midway-Copton is not a large building, nor swank — else they could not have rented there. It has but two elevators. One was down and empty; the other, by the indicator, had just started up.
Randall stepped up to the open car, but did not enter. “Jimmie,” he said, “how many passengers in that other car?”
“Two,” the elevator pilot answered.
“Sure?”
“Yeah. I was breezin’ with Bert when he closed the door. Mr. Harrison and another bird. Why?”
Randall passed him a quarter. “Never mind,” he said, his eyes on the slowly turning arrow of the indicator. “What floor does Mr. Harrison go to?”
“Seven.” The arrow had just stopped at seven.
“Swell.” The arrow started up again, moved slowly past eight and nine, stopped at ten. Randall hustled Cynthia into the car. “Our floor, Jimmie,” he snapped, “and step on it!”
An “up” signal flashed from the fourth floor; Jimmie reached for his controls; Randall grabbed his arm. “Skip it this time, Jim.”
The operator shrugged and complied with the request.
The corridor facing the elevators on the tenth floor was empty. Randall saw this at once and turned to Cynthia. “Give a quick gander down the other wing, Cyn,” he said, and headed to the right, in the direction of their office.
Cynthia did so, with no particular apprehension. She was sure in her own mind that, having come this far, Hoag was certainly heading for their office. But she was in the habit of taking direction from Teddy when they were actually doing something; if he wanted the other corridor looked at, she would obey, of course.
The floor plan was in the shape of a capital H, with the elevators located centrally on the cross bar. She turned to the left to reach the other wing, then glanced to the left — no one in that alley. She turned around and faced the other way — no one down there. It occurred to her that just possibly Hoag could have stepped out on the fire escape; as a matter of fact the fire escape was in the direction she had first looked, toward the rear of the building — but habit played a trick on her; she was used to the other wing in which their office was located, in which, naturally, everything was swapped right for left from the way in which it was laid out in this wing.
She had taken three or four steps toward the end of the corridor facing the street when she realized her mistake — the open window certainly had no fire escape beyond it. With a little exclamation of impatience at her own stupidity she turned back.