At the drug store she changed her dollar into silver and picked out a phone booth. She knew Eddie's number. In a minute the shrill annoyed tones of the landlady came over the wire.
"Could I speak to Mr. Collins, please?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Collins."
"Mr. Carlton?"
"No, Mr. Collins. Eddie Collins."
"Oh, no. He isn't here any more. He moved."
Silence.
Then Dot heard her own voice asking, "Are you sure? He lived there last night."
"Yes, I know. He moved early this morning."
"Oh," said Dot.
The landlady was back in her kitchen feeding her family of cats before Dot remembered to hang up the receiver.
Steady. No panic now. One more place to get him. He must be there. He must be. Dot waited, listening intently. Every click on the wire made her brows draw together nervously. She stared into the blackness of the mouthpiece, waiting—waiting.
"Hello," said a curt businesslike voice.
"Hello," said Dot. "Is this the Uptown Radio Shop?"
"Yes."
"Is Eddie Collins there?"
"Who?" The voice had grown surly and less businesslike. This female obviously was not going to buy a radio set nor even have her battery charged.
"Eddie Collins."
"No."
"Do you know where I could get him?"
"Nope."
"Does he—does he still work there?"
