hundred miles on it since I’d got it yesterday morning—in front of 407 Cuyahoga Street, home. I’d had a room there since Robin and I had separated a month before. Over Arch’s protests, he’d told me; he’d wanted me to come and live with Grandma Tuttle, as he was doing. But I’d wanted privacy and a place of my own. At least, those had been the reasons I’d given Arch, and they were probably true, if not all of the truth.
Number 407 Cuyahoga was the name of the place as well as the address; it was an apartment hotel, mostly bachelor and mostly respectable. The elevator was upstairs somewhere, so I started for the steps until Rosabelle’s voice called me. “Oh, Mr. Britten, there’s a call for you.” Rosabelle is the redhead who works the day shift on the desk and switchboard. She was holding out a slip of paper and I took it and glanced at it. A telephone number, one I didn’t recognize, for me to call. I said, “Thanks, Rosabelle,” and stuffed it into my pocket.
“It was a girl’s voice,” she said. Trust Rosabelle to have noticed that; I had learned—or relearned—that much about her in the last five days. She said, “But she wouldn’t leave a name, just that phone number.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call it from upstairs as soon as I get there.” And I went on up the steps. I hoped the call wasn’t from Robin, to cancel our dinner date two hours from then.
My apartment was a one-room and kitchenette deal, but I’d found only coffee and its accessories in the kitchenette part, so obviously I hadn’t used it to get any of my own meals. Cream for coffee and a few cans of beer constituted the sole contents of the refrigerator.
I picked up the phone as soon as I was inside and said, “Okay, Rosabelle, you can try that number for me now. Spring four eight three seven.”
A voice with a thick Teutonic accent answered the ringing. A man’s voice. “Yess. Who you vant?”
“Rod Britten speaking,” I said. “Someone from that number phoned me and wanted me to call back. A woman’s voice.”
“You must have wrong number, no woman here.”
I glanced at the slip in my hand. “Is this Spring four eight three seven?”
“Yah. Sbring four eight three seven. But no woman iss here. No woman uses phone here. Just me, my brother.”
I told him I was sorry and hung up, then picked up the phone again and got Rosabelle’s voice. “Did you hear that, Rosabelle?”
“Hear what, Mr. Britten?” Her voice sounded too innocent to believe. “I don’t listen in on calls, if that’s what you mean.”
“Of course not, Rosabelle,” I said. “But that number is a Chinese laundry and the proprietor spoke only Lithuanian. You must have got the number wrong. Did you by any chance put it on a scratch pad before you copied it onto the slip you gave me?”
“No, Mr. Britten. I put numbers right on the call slips. Gee, I’m sorry if I got it wrong.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “What time did the call come?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Okay, don’t worry about it.” I put the phone back and looked up my own name in the telephone book to see if it had been Robin who phoned. But the number wasn’t remotely similar; it wasn’t even a Spring exchange. So if Robin had called, she hadn’t made the call from home. And there wasn’t anything I could do about it except keep the appointment.
I took a leisurely bath and shaved and dressed for dinner. Then, because I still had time to kill and was still curious about that telephone call I phoned Arch and asked him if he knew of any number similar enough to that one to have been mistaken for it. He didn’t.
“You say it was a girl, Rod?”
“So the operator here says,” I told him. “Have I been chasing around with any during the last month?”
“Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t necessarily know. I don’t know why you shouldn’t have been, though. No reason for your having been monastic, but you didn’t happen to mention
Number 407 Cuyahoga was the name of the place as well as the address; it was an apartment hotel, mostly bachelor and mostly respectable. The elevator was upstairs somewhere, so I started for the steps until Rosabelle’s voice called me. “Oh, Mr. Britten, there’s a call for you.” Rosabelle is the redhead who works the day shift on the desk and switchboard. She was holding out a slip of paper and I took it and glanced at it. A telephone number, one I didn’t recognize, for me to call. I said, “Thanks, Rosabelle,” and stuffed it into my pocket.
“It was a girl’s voice,” she said. Trust Rosabelle to have noticed that; I had learned—or relearned—that much about her in the last five days. She said, “But she wouldn’t leave a name, just that phone number.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call it from upstairs as soon as I get there.” And I went on up the steps. I hoped the call wasn’t from Robin, to cancel our dinner date two hours from then.
My apartment was a one-room and kitchenette deal, but I’d found only coffee and its accessories in the kitchenette part, so obviously I hadn’t used it to get any of my own meals. Cream for coffee and a few cans of beer constituted the sole contents of the refrigerator.
I picked up the phone as soon as I was inside and said, “Okay, Rosabelle, you can try that number for me now. Spring four eight three seven.”
A voice with a thick Teutonic accent answered the ringing. A man’s voice. “Yess. Who you vant?”
“Rod Britten speaking,” I said. “Someone from that number phoned me and wanted me to call back. A woman’s voice.”
“You must have wrong number, no woman here.”
I glanced at the slip in my hand. “Is this Spring four eight three seven?”
“Yah. Sbring four eight three seven. But no woman iss here. No woman uses phone here. Just me, my brother.”
I told him I was sorry and hung up, then picked up the phone again and got Rosabelle’s voice. “Did you hear that, Rosabelle?”
“Hear what, Mr. Britten?” Her voice sounded too innocent to believe. “I don’t listen in on calls, if that’s what you mean.”
“Of course not, Rosabelle,” I said. “But that number is a Chinese laundry and the proprietor spoke only Lithuanian. You must have got the number wrong. Did you by any chance put it on a scratch pad before you copied it onto the slip you gave me?”
“No, Mr. Britten. I put numbers right on the call slips. Gee, I’m sorry if I got it wrong.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “What time did the call come?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Okay, don’t worry about it.” I put the phone back and looked up my own name in the telephone book to see if it had been Robin who phoned. But the number wasn’t remotely similar; it wasn’t even a Spring exchange. So if Robin had called, she hadn’t made the call from home. And there wasn’t anything I could do about it except keep the appointment.
I took a leisurely bath and shaved and dressed for dinner. Then, because I still had time to kill and was still curious about that telephone call I phoned Arch and asked him if he knew of any number similar enough to that one to have been mistaken for it. He didn’t.
“You say it was a girl, Rod?”
“So the operator here says,” I told him. “Have I been chasing around with any during the last month?”
“Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t necessarily know. I don’t know why you shouldn’t have been, though. No reason for your having been monastic, but you didn’t happen to mention
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