his life—or perhaps he would rescue Jessica Pomeroy from some horrible danger that threatened her, or perhaps . . .
He smiled and finished his breakfast. As long as there was a bit of beauty and a bit of fighting left in the world, he would reconsider his determination to leave this old planet flat on its back and find another where things were livelier. And this began to look promising, too. Well, the first think to do was to locate Jessica Pomeroy.
The telephone book was not of much assistance. There was half a column of the name, and they ranged from authors to zither experts, but he found nothing that conjured up the name of Jessica for him. Some of them lived in the Bronx. That let them out, of course, because Jessica would not live in the Bronx. There were some in Brooklyn—they were dismissed for the same reason.
“Suppose I’ll have to visit them all,” sighed Val. He would visit every Pomeroy in the United States, if necessary. He would⸺”
“The car is here, sir,” announced Eddie.
“All right, Eddie. Coming.”
He lighted a cigarette as he made his way out, humming a gay little tune meanwhile. It was all about love and springtime, and all that sort of thing, and contained a reference to blue eyes and shining skies and moon and June and spoon and croon and all the world’s in tune. For the first time in many days Val was, in a manner of speaking, bubbling inside.
His limousine, a French car, with Eddie sedately and properly at the wheel, stood at the curb.
“To Masterson’s book shop, on Fourth Avenue, Eddie,” he commanded.
