8:37 p.m. —Five Years Later
Mrs. Hollander thought for a moment of simply dialling the operator and saying, “I want a policeman.”
It was what the printed notices in the telephone directory urged one to do in case of an emergency. But it wasn’t an emergency exactly, nor—still exactly—was it a policeman she wanted. She wanted a detective, or an inspector, or something; a man to whom she could explain her worry about Thomas, and who could do something about it if he agreed with her that Thomas was in danger.
Mrs. Hollander wanted most of all a man like Lieutenant Valcour, who had so ably handled that wretched affair five years ago when she had been married to Herbert and Herbert had been shot. She wondered whether Lieutenant Valcour was still on the force, and decided to find out. She dialled Spring 3100. She grew nervous while waiting.
“This is Mrs. Thomas Hollander speaking,” she said, when the same type of impersonal, efficient voice answered her as had been the one five years before. “I am phoning to inquire whether a Lieutenant Valcour is still connected with the police force. … I beg your pardon? Oh.” She gave the address of her apartment house on Park Avenue.
“This is Mrs. Thomas Hollander speaking,” she began again upon a second voice saying, “Hello!” “and I am trying to get in touch with a Lieutenant Valcour who—I beg your pardon? … You are Lieutenant Valcour—Inspector, is it? But how perfectly efficient! I am worried, Inspector, about Mr. Hollander, and I wonder whether it would be possible for you to come up and talk it over with me. … No, he hasn’t