Part 32 (1/2)
”Howja spell it?”
”S-e-l-b-y.”
”S-e-l-b-y. Oh, Selby?”
”Yes, Selby.”
”What was the first name?”
”Christopher.”
”Christopher?”
”Yes, Christopher.”
”Christopher Selby? No one of that name living here.”
”But there must be.”
The veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile.
”You want Mr. Sipperley,” he said tolerantly. In Guatemala these mistakes are always happening. ”Mr. George Sipperley. He's on the fourth floor. What name shall I say?”
He had almost reached the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is an age of just-as-good subst.i.tutes, but she refused to accept any unknown Sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for Uncle Chris.
”I don't want Mr. Sipperley. I want Major Selby.”
”Howja spell it once more?”
”S-e-l-b-y.”
”S-e-l-b-y. No one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley--” he spoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to make Jill see what was in her best interests--”Mr. Sipperley's on the fourth floor. Gentleman in the real estate business,” he added insinuatingly. ”He's got blond hair and a Boston bull-dog.”
”He may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bull-dogs....”
”Only one. Jack his name is.”
”... But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote to me from this address. This _is_ Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?”
”This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street,” conceded the other cautiously.
”I've got his letter here.” She opened her bag, and gave an exclamation of dismay. ”It's gone!”
”Mr. Sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A Mr.
Robertson. Dark-complexioned man with a moustache.”
”I took it out to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back. I must have dropped it.”
”There's a Mr. Rainsby on the seventh floor. He's a broker down on Wall Street. Short man with an impediment in his speech.”