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he didn’t have a loud voice! Listen, sweetheart, I’ve got those poor old schoolmarms eatin’ out of my hand.”
    â€œYou’ll be bitten one of these days,” predicted Patience darkly.
    The Inspector grinned. “Hey, taxi!”

3
    The 19th Man
    The taxicab deposited them precariously in a clutter of monster buses lined up at the kerb on the south side of Forty-Fourth Street near Broadway. They were vast gleaming machines decorated whimsically in a motif of pink and blue, like acromegalic infants primped out by a sentimental mother. Their nurses, to a man young stalwarts attired in smart blue-grey uniforms, sleek-calved and military, lounged on the sidewalk outside a little pink-and-blue booth, smoking and talking.
    Patience stood waiting on the sidewalk before the booth while the Inspector paid off the taxicab driver, and she was not unconscious of the frank admiration in the eyes of the young men in uniform.
    Apparently she pleased one of them considerably, a blond-haired giant, for he tipped his cap forward over his eyes, strolled over, and said pleasantly: “’Lo, babe. Hahzzit?”
    â€œAt the moment,” said Patience, smiling, “uncomfortable.”
    He stared. A young brute with red hair gaped at her, and then turned angrily upon the blond giant. “Lay off, you,” he growled, “or I’ll clip you one. This lady——”
    â€œWhy, Mr. Fisher!” exclaimed Patience. “How gallant! I’m sure your friend meant no—er—disrespect. Did you, you big male Venus?” Her eyes twinkled.
    The giant’s mouth fell open; after a moment he blushed. “Sure not, ma’am.” And he effaced himself in the group of bus-drivers, who broke into guffaws.
    George Fisher removed his cap. “Don’t mind these guys, Miss Thumm. Just a bunch of wisecrackin’ gorillas.… Hallo, Inspector.”
    â€œHallo, yourself,” said the Inspector shortly. His shrewd eyes swept the crowd of young men. “What’s been going on here? Hey, Patty? One of these pups been gettin’ fresh?”
    The young men became very silent.
    â€œNo, no,” said Patience hastily. “How nice to see you again so soon, Mr. Fisher!”
    â€œYeah,” grinned Fisher. “Waitin’ for my call. I uh——”
    â€œHrrmph!” said the Inspector. “Any news, bub?”
    â€œNo, sir, not a thing. Been callin’ Donoghue’s boardin’-house and the museum ever since I left your office. No sign of that thick-headed old Mick, blast him!”
    â€œSeems to me those museum people ought to be getting kind of worried,” muttered the Inspector. “How’d they sound, Fisher?”
    Fisher shrugged. “I only talked to the caretaker, Inspector.”
    Thumm nodded. He took a cigar from his breast pocket and casually bit off one end. As he did so he permitted his eyes to travel from one face to another before him. The drivers continued to preserve a discreet silence; the blond giant had slunk to the rear of the group. They seemed a rough, honest lot. Thumm spat the snip of tobacco on the sidewalk, looked directly in the open pink-and-blue booth, and met the eyes of the man who stood in there clutching a telephone. The man looked quickly away; he was a white-haired, red-faced customer in the same uniform as the others, but the inscription above the peak of his cap displayed in addition to Rivoli Bus Company the word Starter .
    â€œWell, maybe we’ll find out something,” said the Inspector with sudden geniality. “Keep your shirt on, Fisher. Come along, sis.”
    They stepped by the silent group into the doorway of one of the disreputable old structures with which the Times Square section is infested, and mounted a flight of creaking black stairs. At the top they came to a glass door inscribed:
    J. T HEOFEL
    Manager
    RIVOLI BUS COMPANY
    The Inspector knocked, a man called: