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Stacy started phoning. As it was still mid-afternoon, she knew
that a high proportion of her calls would probably result either in no
answer (when
she would try again later) or in getting a response from an answering
machine. After 22 calls, she had had five of the former and nine of the
latter,
On the other eight occasions, the person she had spoken to had denied any
knowledge
of a Stacy Jones.
Then, on call 23, her luck changed. She heard her own voice say: "This is Stacy Jones. I'm not here at the moment, but if you leave a message I'll get back to you." "Found it!" she told her new friend. "Could you lend me a pen, please?" She noted down the details from the phonebook entry onto the back of the doughnut shop receipt: "S.T. Jones; Apartment 4; 20, West 55th St." Not too far away. She could walk there easily enough. Thanking the doughnut shop assistant, she left the shop. As she walked towards 55th Street, she mused about what sort of doctor she might be. A medical one? That might explain the pamphlet on the dangers of smoking she had found in her bag, but somehow it didn't feel right. One item she hadn't found, she realised, was a key. That was odd. She hoped she wouldn't have to try to break in when she arrived home. She found the entrance to the apartment block without any difficulty. Fortunately the outer door onto the street was open. She went through the hall, climbed the stairs and found the door to number 4 on the first floor.
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12/10/1999 6:44:17 AM
Extending Enabled
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