Ain't he the foxy old pirate, though? Sendin' me off on a sleuthin'
expedition without givin' up a hint as to what it's all about! Was it
some back-number romance that this lilac-dipped note had reminded him
of? More likely there'd been some Bagstock or other who'd
double-crossed him in a deal and he'd never found a chance to get
square. Anyway, he's after a confidential report, so off I pikes.

My troubles began right at the start. I had to hunt the address up on
a city map, and when I'd located it on the lower West Side, down in the
warehouse district, I'm sure of one thing--this Mrs. Bagstock can't be
such-a-much. If I had any doubts they was knocked out by the sign hung
alongside the front door--"Furnished Rooms."

I expect it had been quite a decent old house in its day--one of these
full-width brick affairs, with fancy iron grill-work on either side of
the brownstone steps and a fan-light over the door. There was even an
old-fashioned bell-pull that was almost equal to a wall exerciser for
workin' up your muscle. I was still pumpin' away energetic, not
hearin' any results inside, when the door is jerked open, and a perky
young female with the upper part of her face framed in kid curlers and
a baby-blue boudoir cap glares at me unpleasant.

"Humph!" says she. "Tryin' to play 'Rag-Time Temple Bells,' are you?"

"Then I did register a tinkle, did I?" says I.

"Tinkle! More like a riot call," says she. "Want to look at rooms?"

"Not exactly," says I. "You see, I'm representin'--"