August 17th, 11.25 a.m.
WHEN GRANTHAM rang the bell the negro doorman let him in.
Grantham was looking old and tired. He asked for Carrie in a voice tight with nerves.
Joe showed him into a little reception−room. “She’ll be right down, boss,” he said. His big eyes searched Grantham’s face questioningly, but Grantham turned away and felt for his cigarette−case.
When Carrie came in she found him pacing up and down the room, smoking furiously. She shut the door.
“What’s the matter?” she asked abruptly. She always liked to get straight to the point.
Grantham motioned her to a chair. “Things ain’t goin’ right,” he said shortly. “I don’t know what the hell Raven’s playin’ at.”
Carrie rested her big hands on her knees. “He’s a bad man,” she said. “It was wrong to let him take over.”
Grantham threw away his cigarette impatiently. “Don’t go over that again!” he snapped. “I couldn’t stop him. He’s playin’ some deep game, and I don’t know what’s at the back of it.”
Carrie shook her head. “One of his hoods threw vitriol over a hustler yesterday. All the girls are too scared to work. It’s crazy, Grantham. Most of the business is done on the streets. It’s only a certain class that come to the houses.”