Dust—billows of it—rose from the hall rug. Dust that almost choked him before it settled once more on an ancient window seat and clung to the moldering drapes.
He turned to Tanner and felt a shock of surprise. Tanner was cradling his heat gun in his hands, ready for instant action. His face was grim.
"What kind of a man would you say Clark was, Martin?"
"Offhand, kind of a tidy little man and...."
"Not the type who would be living in an ancient rooming house?"
"That's right—he wasn't the type."
"Where did Clark say he lived?"
"Second floor—end of the hall."
"Let's go!"
Stan hesitated a moment. He was supposed to be in charge of the operation, yet Tanner was taking over. For a very good reason—Tanner knew something that he didn't. He followed Tanner up the stairs, his feet sending out little puffs of dust from the stair treads. Clark's room was closed and he knocked lightly on the door.