“Where do I find Yarde ?” he asked.
“He usually hangs out at the Washington Hotel. He could be there, Lieutenant.”
Adams got slowly and stiffly to his feet. This was turning out to be a hell of a night.
“Okay, Raphael. Keep your mouth shut and your legs crossed. Stick right here and don’t try to leave town. I may need you for a witness. Play along with me and you won’t get into trouble.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” Sweeting said, and for the first time since Adams had been in the apartment, he began to breathe freely.
As Adams moved to the door, Sweeting went on, “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but you wouldn’t happen to have a spare buck on you? I have my rent to meet tomorrow and I find myself a little short.”
Adams opened the door and went slowly down the stairs as if he hadn’t heard his head bent, his brow furrowed in thought.
Sweeting leaned over the banister rail but resisted the temptation of spitting on the Lieutenant’s hat. He returned to his room and slammed the door.
He had to raise some money before tomorrow. For a long time he stood thinking, then his face brightened. Of course! Gilda Dorman! He should have thought of her before. She might part with a few bucks if he called on her. She would probably be interested to know her old lover, Maurice Yarde, was in town. She might be still sentimental about him. She might also be interested to know that Lieutenant Adams thought her brother had killed Fay. The possibilities were endless!
Sweeting glanced at the clock on the overmantel. It was a quarter past eleven. These nightclub singers kept late hours. He might catch her if he hurried.
He went over to the pile of directories, flicked through the pages of one of them and found what he wanted.
“45 Maddox Court,” he muttered. “That’s only five minutes from here.”
He took his hat from the cupboard, placed it at an angle on his head so as to hide his bruised eye, picked up Leo, turned off the lights and hurriedly left his apartment.
III
The Washington Hotel had an unsavoury reputation. It was a-room-bythe-hour-and-no-questions-asked joint, sandwiched between an amusement arcade and a beer shop, facing the river. In its basement, hidden away behind a cleverly constructed sliding panel, was a big room where you could enjoy a pipe of opium if you wanted it and if you could pay for it.
On the top floor were a number of well-furnished rooms which were occupied by the hotel’s residents: mostly men just out of prison who were feeling their feet, taking a look around and getting used to their new-found freedom.
The hotel was owned by Sean O’Brien, and Police Captain Motley had taken care that his men didn’t worry the management or the residents. The manager, Seth Cutler, short, thick-set and as hard as granite, was startled when he saw Lieutenant Adams coming across the dimly lit lobby. He leaned his elbows on the desk and waited, his eyes watchful.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” he said, when Adams came to rest opposite him. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah,” Adams said. “Let me take a look at your register.”
Cutler raised his eyebrows, poked his little finger into his right ear, wiggled it about and then withdrew it and examined his nail to see what he had found.
“Snap it up!” Adams barked, his voice suddenly harsh.
Cutler said, “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but haven’t you come to the wrong joint? This is the Washington. We’ve got protection.”
“Give me the book!” Adams said.
Cutler raised his shoulders, produced a well-worn, leather-bound book, blew dust off it and laid it on the desk.
The last entry in the book was dated June 19th, 1941.
“It’s a wonder you keep in business,” Adams said in disgust. He shoved the book back. “I’m looking for Maurice Yarde.”
Cutler shook his head.
“Never heard of him, Lieutenant. Sorry. Help you if I could.”
Adams nodded.
“That’s too bad. Then I’ll have to go from room to room until I find him.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Lieutenant.”
Adams stared steadily at Cutler.
“That’s what I’m going to do unless you tell me where I can find him.”
“The Captain wouldn’t like it.”
“You have your lines snarled up,” Adams said. “The Captain told me to talk to Yarde. This isn’t a pinch. I just want information.”
Cutler hesitated.
“I don’t like my best clients bothered, Lieutenant. I’d rather get it straight from the Captain.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it,” Adams said, shrugging. “I’ll start in on the ground floor and work up, and I’d like to see you stop me! Don’t blame me if your other clients get annoyed with you.”
“He’s on the top floor, No. 10,” Cutler snarled, his face turning red.
“Thanks.”
Adams wandered over to the ancient elevator, got in, closed the gate and hauled on the rope that raised the evil-smelling cage up the equally evilsmelling shaft.
He was thankful when the elevator creaked to a standstill on the top floor. All the way up he had been expecting the rope to snap or the bottom of the cage to drop out.
Facing him was a long passage with doors every few yards. He walked to room 10, listened outside, then hearing no sound in the room, he rapped on the door. Nothing happened, and he rapped again.
The door opposite abruptly opened.
A girl in a blue-and-red silk wrap, her auburn hair about her shoulders, leaned against the door-post and showed him a long white leg and a wellrounded thigh through the opening in her wrap.
“He’s out,” she said. “If you want to wait, there’s a chair in my room.”
“You’re talking to a police officer,” Adams said mildly.
The girl wrinkled her nose, then lifted her shoulders.
“I can’t afford to be fussy. The offer still stands.”
Adams joined her at the door.
“When did Yarde go out?”
“Last night. Is he in trouble?”
“Not that I know of. What time last night?”
“About eight. Are you coming in or are you just wasting my time?”
“I told you I was a police officer,” Adams said patiently. “You are giving me evidence for an arrest.”
The girl giggled.
“Funny man! Didn’t anyone tell you this joint’s got protection?” She made a face at him and closed the door.
Adams scratched his chin thoughtfully, then moved back to room 10, turned the handle of the door and pushed speculatively. To his surprise the door swung open. He put his hand on the inside wall and groped for the light switch, found it and turned it down.
The disorder that met his eyes made him step quickly into the room and close the door.
The room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. Drawers were pulled out and their contents strewn over the floor. The bedding had been ripped: the mattress stuffing and the pillow feathers were all over the room. The two easy chairs had been ripped to pieces. Pictures had been taken down, and now lay on the floor, their backs torn off. The wardrobe door stood open: suits, shoes, shirts and underwear lay in a disordered heap before the wardrobe.
Someone had obviously been searching the room for something pretty important, Adams thought, and the search had been as thorough as it had been destructive.
He walked over to the telephone, lifted the receiver and, when he heard
Cutler’s voice, he said, “I want you. Come up.”
While he waited, he examined the room, but found nothing to interest him.