"You couldn't even get whether she was afraid of men or women?"
"No, sir."
"Go on."
"So I walked with her down to the curb and helped her back into the cab. Then I talked with the driver. He gave me the high-sign that he thought she was tight or deranged and said he would take her home. So off he shot with her and I never saw her again—until this morning's line-up."
"And that was all? Didn't you take the driver's name—"
"I did that, Mr. Colt, you can trust me for that. It must be here in my little book."
Out came Jake Fuller's little book—a legend among his brother officers as the greatest treasury of interesting telephone numbers ever owned by a policeman. He moistened the fat pads of finger and thumb and began turning the pages.
"Here it is, sir—Natale Pieranini, aged twenty-seven
