"I think you had better call a policeman," he said to the pale-eyed clerk, still bent over his letters. "A man has just been murdered in Number Seventeen!"
The shining bald dome moved upward with incredible rapidity.
"A man's been what?" he vacuously demanded.
"If you want me later ring me up," cried back Kestner as he made for the door of the Alambo.
Outside that door his quick eye fell on Wilsnach himself. His colleague of the Service was holding by the arm a small and vigorously protesting messenger-boy.
"There's th' guy I want!" was that youth's triumphant cry as Kestner made a spring for them.
"What's wrong here?" barked out the Secret Agent.
"This gink's tryin' to butt into my business. He comes up on th' run an' grabs me after I hand over that message o' yours!"
"Where did you hand it?"
"W'y, to th' dame herself as she hops into a taxi an' beats it for Broadway without even waitin' to sign for it!"
Kestner wheeled about and stared eastward. There was no taxi in sight.
"Was she alone?" was his next quick query.
"Yep!"
"Not with a tall man of about fifty?"
"Oh, that ol' guy grabbed th' first taxi an' got away as though he was answerin' a three-alarm call. That was b'fore th' dame wit' th' bag come out o' the hotel!"
