When she reached the office she had a hard time of it to settle down to
the day's work.
"Hustle up that Sunday stuff," said Burlingame. Kitty laughed. Just as
she had pictured it. She hustled.
"I have it!" she cried, breaking a spell of silence.
"What--St. Vitus?" inquired Burlingame, patiently.
"No; the Morgue!"
"What the dickens--!"
But Kitty was no longer there to answer.
In all newspaper offices there is a department flippantly designated
as the Morgue. Obituaries on ice, as it were. A photograph or an item
concerning a great man, a celebrated, beauty or some notorious rogue;
from the king calibre down to Gyp-the-Blood brand, all indexed and laid
away against the instant need. So, running her finger tip down the K's,
Kitty found Karlov. The half tone which she eventually exhumed from the
tin box was an excellent likeness of the human gorilla who had entered
her rooms with the policeman. She would be able to carry this positive
information to Cutty that afternoon.
When she left the office at four she took the Subway to Forty-second
Street. She engaged a taxi from the Knickerbocker and discharged it at
the north entrance to the Waldorf, which she entered. She walked through
to the south entrance and got into another taxi. She left this at
Wanamaker's, ducking and dodging through the crowded aisles. She
selected this hour because, being a woman, she knew that the press of
shoppers would be the greatest during the day. Karlov's man and
the secret-service operative detailed by Cutty both made the same
mistake--followed Kitty into the dry-goods shop and lost her as
completely as if she had popped up in China. At quarter to five she
stepped into Elevator Number Four of the building which Cutty called his
home, very well pleased with herself.