On the glass door of Room 962 were the words: “Robbins & Hartley, Brokers.”
It was after five o’clock. The clerks had already gone home. Cleaning women walked through the tall office building. Hot air came through the open windows, mixed with city smells.
Robbins was about fifty. He liked theatre shows and hotel bars. He joked with his young partner.
“Tonight will be very hot,” Robbins said. “You people who live outside the city will be lucky. You will have fresh air, insects singing, and cold drinks on the porch.”
Hartley, twenty-nine, serious and nervous, only sighed.
“Yes,” he said, “it is always cooler in Floralhurst at night.”
At that moment a man entered. He looked mysterious. He walked straight to Hartley.
“I found her address,” the man whispered dramatically.
Hartley frowned at him to be quiet. Robbins, meanwhile, put on his hat and cane and left for his evening entertainment.
“Here is the address,” the man said normally now, giving Hartley a piece of paper. It said:
“Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East – Street, care of Mrs. McComus.”
“She moved there last week,” said the man. “Do you want me to follow her? I can do a fine job—only $7 a day plus expenses.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Hartley interrupted. “I only wanted the address. How much do I owe you?”
“Ten dollars,” said the detective.
Hartley paid him and left the office. He took a Broadway streetcar, then another car that brought him to an old part of town. After walking a few blocks, he arrived at a new apartment house called The Vallambrosa. Its balconies and fire escapes were full of laundry, children, and even plants trying to survive the summer heat
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