“Yes, sir.”
The car, galvanized into sudden and vibrant life beneath him, slid out into the smooth roadway and hummed over the asphalt on its way downtown. Val gave himself up to pleasant meditations. Possibly she was already at the bookshop, having in some miraculous way discovered the loss of the money; maybe she was there with other books.
Surely one of the volumes in Mat’s possession would have her name and address. Of course, her name was Jessica Pomeroy—of that he was certain, though he was willing to admit freely that his grounds for belief in this were not impregnable. Yet, did not the name Jessica fit her so well that you might think that he, Val, had personally chosen it for her? It did! Well, then.
He lighted another cigarette. Just like a novel, he commented. It seemed to be a case of cherchez la femme, and he intended cherching the femme all over the bally town until he had her located. As to finding her, that ought not to be so hard. He was awakened from his reverie by the stopping of the car in front of Masterson’s bookshop.
“Wait, Eddie,” he threw back, jumping out and making his way to the store.
“Funny,” he commented to himself. “First time I ever knew Mat to be late.” The window shades were drawn down close to the bottom, shutting out all outside view, just as Mat left them every night.
A closer look convinced him, however, that the store was not closed. A streak of yellow gaslight showed at one end of the window, where the shade did not quite fit to the exact end of the glass. And now a shadow crossed the shade.
