Lieutenant Valcour refreshed his memory from the leather reference book and then dialled the number.

“Mr. Thomas Hollander?” he said, when a man’s voice answered him. It was a smooth, soft voice, and he suspected that further words beyond the initial “hello” would reveal a Southern accent.

“Who is calling, please?” went on the voice, making the expected latitudinal revelation.

“I have a message from the home of Mr. Herbert Endicott for Mr. Thomas Hollander. Will you ask him to come to the phone, please?”

“One moment.”

“Certainly.”

Lieutenant Valcour drew stars on a scratch pad while he waited. He wondered idly what secret powers or hidden vices they would disclose if examined by a trained graphologist. He made quite a good star and drew exciting rays out from its points. That would undoubtedly show, he told himself, that he was a nosey, mean-spirited, and cold-hearted sleuth hound. What an infernal time it took to get Hollander to the telephone! Had the line gone dead? Ah⁠ ⁠…

“Yes?” It was a deeper voice, this time, and held no promise, or threat, of Southern softnesses.

“Mr. Thomas Hollander?”

“Yes.”

“This is the home of Mr. Herbert Endicott, Mr. Hollander.”

“Yes?”

“And I am Lieutenant Valcour talking⁠—of the police.”

The deadness of the wire became a pause of the first magnitude. Then:

“Well, Lieutenant, what’s it all about?”

“It is about Mr. Endicott, Mr. Hollander.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“He’s dead?”

“Dead? Why no, Hollander. Were you expecting him to be?”

“What do you mean by ‘expecting him to be’? Certainly I wasn’t. Please come down to facts, Lieutenant.”

“I was about to. Mr. Endicott has suffered a heart attack brought on by some sudden shock. His condition is serious, and Dr. Worth, who is attending him, insists that some friend be at hand when Mr. Endicott recovers consciousness.”

“You mean”⁠—the voice was speaking very carefully now⁠—“in addition to Mrs. Endicott?”

“No, unfortunately Mrs. Endicott cannot be present.”

Again a pause, and then:

“Why not, Lieutenant? She isn’t⁠—that is⁠—”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hollander?”

“Damn it, is she arrested?”

“Certainly not. What for?”

“Well, what in hell are you cops in the house for if”⁠—the voice ended less belligerently⁠—“there hasn’t been some crime?”

Lieutenant Valcour remained splendidly detached.

“We shan’t be certain that there either has or hasn’t been a crime, as you infer, until Mr. Endicott recovers consciousness and lets us know.”

“He’s unconscious?”

“Yes.”

“Is his condition serious, Lieutenant?”

“Most serious, Mr. Hollander.”

“And Mrs. Endicott⁠—why is it she can’t be with Herb?”

“Dr. Worth has given her a narcotic. She’s sleeping. Her nerves are unstrung.”

This evidently took a minute to digest.

“From what, Lieutenant?”

“From her husband’s condition.”

“Did Mrs. Endicott suggest that you call me up, Lieutenant?”

“No. Roberts, her maid, said you were a friend⁠—a mutual friend. Roberts tells me that your name is the only one she has ever heard spoken by Mr. Endicott in terms that would imply intimacy.”

“That’s right.”

“You and Mr. Endicott are intimate friends, are you not?”

“Pretty thick, Lieutenant. What is it you want me to do?”

“To sit with Mr. Endicott until he recovers consciousness. Dr. Worth is afraid that his heart will go back on him again if there isn’t someone he knows with him when he comes to. If you’ll be kind enough to come up, Dr. Worth will explain the whole peculiar affair to you much better than I can.”

“Why, of course. Yes. When?”

“As soon as convenient.”

“In about an hour? There are some things⁠—”

“That will do perfectly. Thank you very much, Mr. Hollander. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Lieutenant Valcour hung up the receiver of the hall telephone he was using and walked to where he had left his coat and hat. He put them on and buttonholed O’Brian by the front door.

“O’Brian,” he said, “there’s a man coming here shortly by the name of Thomas Hollander. Have him identify himself by a visiting card, or a letter, or his driver’s licence, or initials on something or other. Give him a pat, too, in passing to make certain that he hasn’t got a gun. If it offends him, say that it is just a matter of routine. As a matter of fact, in his case, it probably is. Then show him up to the room that Dr. Worth is occupying for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“From Dr. Worth’s room he will be taken down to Mr. Endicott’s room and will stay there until morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to tip the men off on guard down here that I want it known I am going home until tomorrow. Tell Mr. Hollander that if he asks to see me. I am leaving the house now and may be gone for a couple of hours, more or less. Then I’m coming back. I’ll rap on this door here, and you let me in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s probably a lounge or something in that room there just off this hall. I’ll spend the night on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the name of the gentleman who is coming?”

“Thomas Hollander, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

Lieutenant Valcour went outside. The normal orderliness of life returned comfortingly with the first deep breaths of cold night air. He walked the short half block to Fifth Avenue and hailed a taxi. He got in. He gave the driver, through the half-opened window in front, the Riverside Drive address of Marge Myles.