The Comic Book Killer. Richard A. Lupoff

getting late, Mr. Lindsey, and you’re at an East Bay exchange....”

      “Walnut Creek.”

      “That’s a long trip. Would tomorrow be okay?”

      In fact that was what Lindsey had in mind, and they arranged to meet in the morning.

      Then Lindsey made his second call. He looked in the Contra Costa book and found Professor Nathan ben Zinowicz. The book listed a number but no address.

      He dialed and waited while the phone rang. Finally someone picked up. A cultured contralto voice said, “Ben Zinowicz, ye-es?”

      It didn’t sound anything like the professor. Lindsey couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman.

      He said, “Is he there, please?”

      “This is Francis speaking. May I be of assistance?”

      “The prof told me to call for an appointment. So I’m calling.” Good gosh, he was getting tired of being run around!

      “Yes, well perhaps you’ll tell me who you are, and a little bit about your problem.”

      “I’d rather talk to the professor, Ms. Francis.”

      “Just Francis, please. The professor is traveling right now.”

      “When will he be back?”

      “Perhaps if you will just tell me about it.”

      Lindsey counted ten-nine-eight under his breath, unclenched his teeth and explained the reason for his call. If ben Zinowicz was interested in International Surety’s money he could earn it, and if not, Lindsey was sure that somebody else would be.

      Francis said, “Stand by please, Mr. Lindsey.” He put him on hold and the sound of a string quartet playing “Glow little glow-worm glimmer, glimmer” came across the line. From the kitchen Lindsey heard the sounds of Mother putting away the china and glasses.

      “I’ve been in communication with Dr. ben Zinowicz,” Francis resumed, “and he will see you tomorrow evening. I believe Dr. ben Zinowicz has already pointed out the importance of punctuality.”

      “Yes. Just give me the address and the time. I’ll be there.”

      “We are located in Point Richmond. The streets are somewhat difficult after dark. If you will come to the town, I will escort you to the house.”

      “Really, just give me the directions. I can find it.” Lindsey was getting annoyed.

      “Take Canal Boulevard west from Highway 17. Follow that until you pass the municipal pool and cross the Santa Fe tracks. Turn right on Railroad Avenue. Park halfway up the block and cross the street. You’ll find the Baltic Restaurant. I’ll meet you in the cocktail lounge. Wear a white snap-brim hat and carry your briefcase so I’ll recognize you. Tomorrow, eight-thirty P.M.”

      And he hung up.

      Lindsey dialed ben Zinowicz’s number again. He got a tape in Francis’s marshmallow voice asking him to leave his name and number. He slammed the telephone down.