Protesting was out of the question. If Dean balked, Fred wouldn't be fit to live with. He handed the old man ten dollars and was handed a slip of paper with the phone number from the rental sign
Mrs. Glass was apparently an early riser and answered the phone on the second ring. She listened patiently to Dean's detailed explanation that he was from the police and interested in a tenant, Mr. J. Cleary of Bascomb Place. She promptly asked if he wanted a furnished or unfurnished apartment. Utilizing the best of his detective training, he deduced she was as deaf as a turnip.
With the combination of patience and increased volume, Dean managed to obtain her address and a promise she would see them, if they gave her 20 minutes to "freshen herself up." Dean returned to the table and conveyed the news as he picked up his coffee- no roll, no change.
"I have an address," Dean added. "All we have to do is find it, spend ten minutes yelling at an old lady and then get back to Parkside."
Fred nodded, sipped at his tea and made a face.
"What's a matter?" Dean asked as he sniffed a highly flavored-and apparently expensive-coffee.
"All I wanted was a cup of tea," said Fred as they killed time. "You'd think that would be a simple request. Instead they ask me if I want some Burmese Rain forest mixture or some leaves pressed by cloistered nuns in Nepal. What ever happened to Arthur Godfrey and regular ol' Lipton tea?"
"Who's Arthur Godfrey?" Dean asked with a smile as he took a sip of his sweet mixture. "What did you get me?"
"I just pointed," came the muttered reply.
Neither finished his beverage; Fred because he was anxious to get going and Dean because he could only take a small dose of the perfumed blend. A bearded counter man in bare feet pointed them off in the right direction. They were still early when ten minutes later they located Mrs. Glass's address.
Mrs. Glass ushered them into a frilly little apartment in a restored brownstone located in a neighborhood that was a marked improvement over Bascomb Place. They were seated on the type of furniture you're afraid will break, amid a thousand little figurines of dancing girls that must have presented a monumental dusting job. If the figurines were representative of Mrs. Glass's past, it was an era 50 years and 200 pounds earlier.
Fred O'Connor immediately took charge and played the woman like an old harmonica. He was not only able to control the volume of his voice without appearing to yell, but had her giggling like a schoolgirl in a matter of minutes. After the amenities were put to rest, Fred casually mentioned they were interested in Mr. Cleary, on Bascomb Place.