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.”