By the time it arrived he was dressed in the only clothes he had with him and was becoming anxious to get home. He drank two cups of indifferent coffee standing up, fiddled with the food, then left the hotel.
After letting himself into his apartment he hung up his coat and hat, took off his gloves, and went as usual straight to his dressing room. He had carefully scrubbed the nails of his left hand and was just commencing on his right when he noticed what he was doing.
The nails of his left hand were white and clean; those of the right were dark and dirty. Carefully holding himself in check he straightened up, stepped over and examined his watch where he had laid it on his dresser, then compared the time with that shown by the electric clock in his bedroom. It was ten minutes past six P.M.-his usual time for returning home in the evening.
He might not recall his profession; his profession had certainly not forgotten him.
II
The firm of Randall & Craig, Confidential Investigation, maintained its night phone in a double apartment. This was convenient, as Randall had married Craig early in their association. The junior partner had just put the supper dishes to soak and was trying to find out whether or not she wanted to keep the book-of-the-month when the telephone rang. She reached out, took the receiver, and said, “Yes?” in noncommittal tones.
To this she added, “Yes.”
The senior partner stopped what he was doing-he was engaged in a ticklish piece of scientific research, involving deadly weapons, ballistics and some esoteric aspects of aero-dynamics; specifically he was trying to perfect his overhand throw with darts, using a rotogravure likeness of café society’s latest glamour girl thumbtacked to the bread board as a target. One dart had nailed her left eye; he was trying to match it in the right.
“Yes,” his wife said again.
“Try saying ‘No,'” he suggested.
She cupped the mouthpiece. “Shut up and hand me a pencil.” She made a long arm across the breakfast-nook table and obtained a stenographer’s pad from a hook there. “Yes. Go ahead.” Accepting the pencil she made several lines of the hooks and scrawls that stenographers use in place of writing. “It seems most likely,” she said at last. “Mr. Randall is not usually in at this hour. He much prefers to see clients during office hours. Mr. Craig? No, I’m sure Mr. Craig couldn’t help you. Positive. So? Hold the line and I’ll find out.”
Randall made one more try at the lovely lady; the dart stuck in the leg of the radio-record player. “Well?”
“There is a character on the other end of this who wants to see you very badly tonight. Name of Hoag, Jonathan Hoag. Claims that it is a physical impossibility for him to come to see you in the daytime. Didn’t want to state his business and got all mixed up when he tried to.”
“Gentleman or lug?”
“Gentleman.”
“Money?”
“Sounds like it. Didn’t seem worried about it. Better take it, Teddy. April 15th is coming up.”
“O.K. Pass it over.”
She waved him back and spoke again into the phone. “I’ve managed to locate Mr. Randall. I think he will be able to speak with you in a moment or two. Will you hold the line, please?” Still holding the phone away from her husband she consulted her watch, carefully counted off thirty seconds, then said, “Ready with Mr. Randall. Go ahead, Mr. Hoag,” and slipped the instrument to her husband.
“Edward Randall speaking. What is it, Mr. Hoag?
“Oh, really now, Mr. Hoag, I think you had better come in in the morning. We are all human and we like our rest-I do, anyhow.
“I must warn you, Mr. Hoag, my prices go up when the sun goes down.
“Well, now, let me see-I was just leaving for home. Matter of fact, I just talked with my wife so she’s expecting me. You know how women are. But if you could stop by my home in twenty minutes, at . . . uh . . . seventeen minutes past eight, we could talk for a few minutes. All right-got a pencil handy? Here is the address-” He cradled the phone.