I made a dash for the bar. The bar-tender said, “You can’t go in there.”
I spotted an open door and a flight of stairs. I made a sprint. The bar-tender grabbed and caught the shoulder of my coat. I kicked him in the knee-cap and, when his hold loosened, dashed on down the stairs. The bar-tender had sufficient presence of mind to slam the door shut behind me so that any noise made down below wouldn’t be heard in the cocktail lounge.
I reached a basement storage room. There were cases of liquor stacked all around, racks with wine bottles. There was no sign of Claire Bushnell.
The manager of the cocktail lounge was in the process of gliding through another opened door at the far end of the room. He saw me, and an expression of black anger came over his face.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“Where’s that girl who screamed?”
“I don’t know. She ran back upstairs. This is private. Get out.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
He heard the sound of commotion at the head of the stairs and said suddenly, “As far as I’m concerned this is a stick-up. I’m going to defend myself.”
His hand darted under his coat.