Cynthia was too late to catch the bus, but not too late to note its number. She yoohooed at the first cruising taxi that came by, told the driver the number of the bus, and set out. They covered twelve blocks before the bus came in sight; three blocks later a red light enabled the driver to pull up alongside the bus. She spotted her husband inside; it was all she needed to know. She occupied the time for the rest of the ride in keeping the exact amount shown by the meter plus a quarter tip counted out in her hand.
When she saw them get out of the bus she told the driver to pull up. He did so, a few yards beyond the bus stop. Unfortunately they were headed in her direction; she did not wish to get out at once. She paid the driver the exact amount of the tariff while keeping one eye-the one in the back of her head-on the two men. The driver looked at her curiously.
“Do you chase after women?” she said suddenly.
“No, lady. I gotta family.”
“My husband does,” she said bitterly and untruthfully. “Here.” She handed him the quarter.
Hoag and Randall were some yards past by now. She got out, headed for the shop just across the walk, and waited. To her surprise she saw Hoag turn and speak to her husband. She was too far away to hear what was said.
She hesitated to join them. The picture was wrong; it made her apprehensive-yet her husband seemed unconcerned. He listened quietly to what Hoag had to say, then the two of them entered the office building in front of which they had been standing.
She closed in at once. The lobby of the office building was as crowded as one might expect at such an hour in the morning. Six elevators, in bank, were doing rushing business. No. 2 had just slammed its doors. No. 3 had just started to load. They were not in No. 3; she posted herself near the cigar stand and quickly cased the place.
They were not in the lobby. Nor were they, she quickly made sure, in the barber shop which opened off the lobby. They had probably been the last passengers to catch Elevator No. 2 on its last trip. She had been watching the indicator for No. 2 without learning anything useful from it; the car had stopped at nearly every floor.
No. 2 was back down by now; she made herself one of its passengers, not the first nor the last, but one of the crowd. She did not name a floor, but waited until the last of the others had gotten off.
The elevator boy raised his eyebrows at her. “Floor, please!” he commanded.
She displayed a dollar bill. “I want to talk to you.”
He closed the gates, accomplishing an intimate privacy. “Make it snappy,” he said, glancing at the signals on his board.
“Two men got on together your last trip.” She described them quickly and vividly. “I want to know what floor they got off at.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. This is the rush hour.”
She added another bill. “Think. They were probably the last two to get aboard. Maybe they had to step out to let others off. The shorter one probably called out the floor.”
He shook his head again. “Even if you made it a fin I couldn’t tell you. During the rush Lady Godiva and her horse could ride this cage and I wouldn’t know it. Now-do you want to get out or go down?”
“Down.” She handed him one of the bills. “Thanks for trying.”
He looked at it, shrugged, and pocketed it.
There was nothing to do but to take up her post in the lobby. She did so, fuming. Done in, she thought, done in by the oldest trick known for shaking a tail. Call yourself a dick and get taken in by the office-building trick! They were probably out of the building and gone by now, with Teddy wondering where she was and maybe needing her to back up his play.
She ought to take up tatting! Damn!