I hoped they hadn’t sent her that picture. It was a little rough. So was the simple caption: VICTIM OF POLICE BRUTALITY.

I crushed out the cigarette and sat up. If I spent the whole afternoon cooped up in a room with my thoughts I’d be walking up the walls. I thought of Mrs. Langston, and that telephoning creep who had her headed for a crack-up. The phone directory was over on the chest. No, I thought sourly; the hell with it. It was nothing to me, was it?

He’d be gone, anyway, by this time, so what good would it do?

But the idea persisted, and I went over and picked up the small phone book. It presented a challenge, and it would kill the afternoon, wouldn’t it? I grabbed up my pen and a sheet of stationery, and flipped through the yellow pages.

Cafés. . . . There were eight listed, three of them on one street, Springer. That was probably the main drag. I wrote down the addresses.

Taverns. . . . Nine listed.

Beer Gardens. . . . No such heading.

Night Clubs. . . . One, a duplicate listing for one of the taverns.

That made a total of seventeen places, with the possibility of some duplications. I called a cab, and dressed quickly in sports shirt and lightweight trousers. As we drove out I noted one of the places on my list was just across the road.