I LOOKED up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight. A faint and far-off sound of movement told me that at least some of the occupants behind the many doors were beginning to greet the day; even if they went no farther than rolling over in bed.
I moved cautiously out of Room 23 and closed the door. Then I took off my hat and wiped my face with my handker-chief. I lit a cigarette and drew in a lungful of smoke. That helped a little, but not much. What I needed was a large whisky, neat, and in a hurry.
I stepped across the corridor to the redhead’s door. On the left-hand panel with a card that read: Miss Joy Dreadon. At home weekdays after five.
I tapped with my finger-nails on the door, making no more noise than a mouse makes when it is nibbling at die wainscot-ting, but it was loud enough.
The door opened about eight inches and Miss Dreadon peered at me through the opening. She seemed to have lost her bonhomie and her trustful air of welcome.
‘Well?’
Her big green eyes were suspicious and watchful.
I decided to waste no time and to talk to her in a language she would understand and appreciate.
‘I want to buy a little information,’ I said, and pushed my card at her. ‘Twenty dollars buys ten minutes at my rates: nice clean bills and secrecy guaranteed.’
She read the card with that pained expression people usually wear who don’t read a great deal and are still bothered by long words. She had to make an obvious effort not to move her lips while she spelt out the letters to herself.