He stepped into his limousine and picked up a telephone directory which he had brought along for just that purpose. Pomeroy . . . Pomeroy . . . he thumbed the pages rapidly until he came to the one he wanted. He found it. M-m-m . . . Pollock . . . Polonsky . . . Polsky . . . Pomerantz . . . ah, here it is, Pomeroy. He selected one that looked promising on West Sixty-eighth Street, told Eddie his destination, and settled himself back to his dreams and his reflections as the car throbbed under him and glided out into the roadway.
It was not going to be hard. All he had to do was to keep going until he had exhausted the possibilities of the telephone book and the city directory. Even if he did not come across her directly, surely some Pomeroy in the city would be able to direct him to Jessica Pomeroy. There could not be many Jessicas, could there? No; he answered his own query. There could only be one—that is, always supposing that her name was really Jessica Pomeroy—a fact which he was taking for granted.
He got no satisfaction, nor did he get any information, at the first Pomeroy on West Sixty-eighth Street. She was an old maiden lady who knew nobody of the name of Jessica Pomeroy and probably would not have told him if she did know. From her manner, she regarded him as possibly somebody who was without the law—a creature going around trying to pick up unprotected women. She strained her Peke closer to her thin breast as she coldly closed the door on him.
The next place was East Ninety-second Street. He found that it overlooked the East River. He also found that the neighborhood was poor and squalid,
