O’Brian very thoughtfully did likewise.
Then he began to wonder what he ought to do. It didn’t take him very long to decide, especially as the thumping noise and tinkle of breaking glass grew louder in retrospect the more he thought about them. He didn’t have to go as far as Denmark; something was certainly rotten right here in New York.
He dialled the operator, identified himself as a member of the police force, and stated that he wanted the call he had just received instantly traced.
“Oneminuteplease,” requested a voice with a macadamized smile.
The minute stretched into two—ten—but eventually he was informed that the call had come from the apartment of a Mr. Thomas Hollander, whose phone number and address were thereupon given.
O’Brian jotted them down. He then dialled the telephone number of Hollander who was, as he very well knew, right upstairs. Several persistent diallings failed to awaken any response.
The complexion of the work afoot grew dirtier. O’Brian felt certain that it was connected with the terrain activities of Lieutenant Valcour. If it had just been some occupant of Hollander’s apartment who had wanted to call Hollander up about something, there would have been an answer.
And there wouldn’t have been that thumping noise, and the tinkle of breaking glass.
It seemed a matter that required investigation at once. O’Brian telephoned his precinct station and reported the occurrence and his beliefs about it to the sergeant in charge. He was assured that a raiding squad would be dispatched within a matter of minutes to the address he had given.