He wore a smart black suit that the hotel owner had obtained for him. The hotel owner was a guy called Goshawk. Raven had paid him well and he hadn’t asked questions. Already he knew who Raven was.
Everywhere pictures of Raven proclaimed him as a wanted man. As long as he continued to pay Goshawk he knew he was safe, but he knew that if he was to make his get−away and have enough to start some other racket he couldn’t stay long. Goshawk knew how to charge.
Raven stirred uneasily and then sat up quickly. His hand closed round the gun as he listened. He heard nothing, and relaxed.
The four grimy walls of the room oppressed him. He wanted to get up and go out, but he knew he daren’t do that. Even from his bedroom window he could see a poster on a hoarding carrying his photograph. The F.B.I. weren’t taking any chances with him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. He glanced at the clock. It didn’t matter to him what time it was, he’d got no place to go.
Moving across to the wash−basin, he bathed his face and decided to shave. While taking his collar and tie off he happened to look across the road at an opposite house. He stood still staring.
A girl, dressed in a white flimsy step−in, was wandering backwards and forwards in front of the window.
She seemed to be doing a dance routine. By listening carefully he could hear the faint strains of a gramophone.
Keeping carefully out of sight, he stood watching her. His first reaction was that she’d be a good type for one of his houses, then his second reaction was a sudden forgotten lust that made him want her as he had never wanted a woman before.
She was medium height, with a mass of corn−coloured curls. Even from where he was standing he could see she had an exceptionally good figure. She drifted round the room smoothly, and then, as the record came to an end, she disappeared from view.