It was incredible, but a little amusing—most amusing of all to see Elk’s face.
The detective was frankly dumbfounded by the news.
“Heron’s is my idea of a good finish to a happy evening,” said Elk at last, drawing a long breath. He beckoned one of his escort. “How many man do you want to cover Heron’s Club?” he asked.
“Six,” was the prompt reply. “Ten to raid it, and twenty for a rough house.”
“Get thirty!” said Elk emphatically.
Heron’s from the exterior was an unpretentious building. But once under the curtained doors, and the character of its exterior was forgotten. A luxurious lounge, softly lit and heavily carpeted, led to the large saloon, which was at once restaurant and dance-hall.
Dick stood in the doorway awaiting the arrival of the manager, and admired the richness and subtle suggestion of cosiness which the room conveyed. The tables were set about an oblong square of polished flooring; from a gallery at the far end came the strain of a coloured orchestra; and on the floor itself a dozen couples swayed and glided in rhythm to the staccato melody.
“Gilded vice,” said Elk disparagingly. “A regular haunt of sin and self-indulgence. I wonder what they charge for the food—there’s Mathusalem.”
“Mathusalem” was sitting, a conspicuous figure, at the most prominent table in the room. His polished head glistened in the light from the crystal candelabras, and in the shadow that it cast, his patriarchal beard so melted into the white of his snowy shirt front that for a moment Dick did not recognize him.
Before him was set a large glass mug filled with beer.