George was startled. “Yes,” he said. “Miss Cora Brant.”
A sly, sneering smile came into the green eyes.
“Gawd Almighty! We’re putting on side, ain’t we?” the little man said. “Okay, palsy, leave your message. I’ll take care of it.”
George’s growing dislike for the little man suddenly turned to suspicion. He looked a real had lot: a shady character: a gangster. He could have been anything—a racing tout with a razor, a pimp with a knife
Abruptly he turned to the door. “I’ll see her,” he said shortly. “Don’t you bother.”
He went downstairs. The little man watched him all the way down. As he reached the street door, the little man called after him, “Now wait. Don’t be so ’asty,” but George did not stop. He walked rapidly away, his face hot and red.
At the end of the street he paused and tried to make up his mind what he was to do. Obviously the club wouldn’t open until the evening. But what time in the evening? He’d have to find that out. He crossed the road and entered a shabby little tobacconist’s. He bought a packet of Player’s, and as he was waiting for his change he asked, “When does Joe’s Club open?”
The old woman who had served him shook her head. “You want to keep away from that place,” she said. “No good’s ever come out of it.”
George opened the packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Oh?” he said, feeling a stab of excitement. “What do you know about it?”
“Enough,” the old woman answered shortly, and put the odd coppers on the counter.