Harris grinned and grabbed the notes. He tucked them in his vest pocket. “Well,” he said, “I don’t like him.
I don’t like the mob he has up in his suite. I don’t like the dame who lives with him.”
Jay waited patiently.
“For one thing,” Harris went on, “no respectable guy associates with the kind of hoods that go up there.
I’ve had my eye on him ever since he moved in. He’s a mean−lookin’ guy himself. I’ll swear the dame ain’t his wife. She acts sortta strange. She’s scared of him. Three punks see him every day. They drive up in the staff elevator. You ought to see the way one of them dresses. Still, they pay all right and we’ve got nothing against them, but I’m watching ’em.”
This sounded promising to Jay. He said, “Can I get a room on their floor, Harris?”
“Like that, is it?” Harris looked interested. “Yeah, I guess that could be arranged. Shall I fix it?”
Jay nodded. “Another thing. Maybe this guy’s got a record. Suppose you get his prints?”
Harris sneered. “Talk sense. I can’t do a thing like that.”
Jay took out his silver cigarette−case. “Take this up to him. Push it into his hands. Tell him you found it outside his apartment and you think it’s his. Then bring it back and let me have it. I’ll take it to the F.B.I. for a test.”