Maltz grunted. “The cops at Denver are workin’ on this, boss,” he said. “There’s been a hell of a lot of squawks from that town. Maybe we ought to ease up on the girls there.” Raven nodded. “Sure,” he said; “put a little more pressure on Cleveland. When things start getting hot, try somewhere else.”
He went to the door. “I’m goin’ back now,” he said. “You might go over to the 22nd tonight. I’m expecting a batch of girls to come in. Grantham’s gettin’ too busy to handle that sort of thing now.”
Maltz said he would, and Raven went out. He walked down the stairs, his face thoughtful. All the afternoon he had been worrying. He knew someone wanted to get his finger−prints. When the St. Louis house dick had brought him the cigarette−case his suspicions had been aroused. It couldn’t be the authorities. They would never have used a broken−down flatfoot like Harris.
The last three months of easy living had not blunted his finely developed sense of self−preservation. He had got on too well to risk anything now.
Out in the street he hesitated before calling a taxi. Something told him that he shouldn’t return to the hotel.
Yet, he told himself savagely, he’d got to. All his dough was there.
As he neared the hotel he leant forward and told the driver to go straight on past. He crouched back in the cab and examined the hotel carefully as they went by. He saw nothing there to alarm him. Still he wasn’t satisfied. He stopped the taxi at the next block and paid him off. Then he went into a phone booth and rang his apartment. The clerk said apologetically that he could get no answer. He asked sharply if his wife was out.
The clerk told him he hadn’t seen her go. Raven hung up.
By now he was a little alarmed. He wondered if Grantham knew anything. When he rang Grantham’s office he was told that he was out, but was expected any minute.
“Where’s he gone?” he asked.