“I could call the store.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I could call the flower shop,” I suggested. “Could I use your phone? If there’s a mistake I’ll get in trouble, and if there’s no mistake maybe they can tell you something about the person who sent you the flowers.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I really better call,” I said. “I don’t know if I should leave the flowers without calling in.”

“Well,” she said. “Well, yes, perhaps you’d better call.”

She led me inside, drew the door shut. I tried to hear the elevator going off on other business, but of course I couldn’t hear anything. I followed Leona Tremaine into a thickly carpeted living room filled with more furniture than it needed, the bulk of it French Provincial. The chairs and sofa were mostly tufted and the colors ran to a lot of pink and white. A cat displayed himself on what looked to be the most comfortable of the chairs. He was a snow-white Persian and his whiskers were intact.

“There’s a telephone,” she said, pointing to one of those old French-style instruments trimmed out in gold and white enamel. I lifted the receiver to my ear and dialed Onderdonk’s number. The line was busy.

“It’s busy,” I said. “People phone in orders all the time. You know how it is.” Why was I running off at the mouth like this? “I’ll try again in a minute.”

“Well.”

Why was Onderdonk’s line busy? He’d been out earlier. Why couldn’t he stay out, now that I’d finally gotten into his building? I couldn’t leave now, for God’s sake. I’d never get back in again.