On second thought he redialled that number.
"When Miss Helen Arasumian comes home," he said, "tell her to go to hell."
He phoned Mars Junction, New Boston, Arcadia, and Roosevelt City exchanges, theorizing that they would be logical places for persons to dial from, after that he contacted local city halls and other public institutions in each town. He phoned the best hotels. Leave it to a woman to put herself up in luxury.
Suddenly he stopped, clapped his hands sharply together, and laughed. Of course! He checked the directory and dialled a long-distance call through to the biggest beauty parlour in New Texas City. If ever there were a place where a woman would putter around, patting mudpacks on her face and sitting under a drier, it would be a velvet-soft, diamond-gem beauty parlour.
The phone rang. Someone at the other end lifted the receiver.
A woman‘s voice said, "Hello?"
"If this is a recording," announced Walter Gripp, "I’ll come over and blow the place up."
"This isn‘t a record," said the woman‘s voice. "Hello! Oh, hello, there is someone alive! Where are you?" She gave a delighted scream.
Walter almost collapsed. "You!" He stood up jerkily, eyes wild. "Good lord, what luck, what‘s your name?"
"Genevieve Selsor!" She wept into the receiver. "Oh, I’m so glad to hear from you, whoever you are!"
"Walter Gripp!"
"Walter, hello, Walter!"
"Hello, Genevieve!"
"Walter. It’s such a nice name. Walter, Walter!"
"Thank you."
"Walter, where are you?"