“The airport?”
“Watching there, too. Fact is, your honor, I’ve made the force shorthanded, detailing so many men on that one line of work.”
“Where are the dope sales being made?” questioned Louis Helwig, the promoter.
“Everywhere,” retorted Yates. “Right here in this hotel, for one place.”
He looked toward Graham Hurley as he spoke, and the hotel proprietor seemed to imbibe some of the police chief’s uneasiness. Rufus Cruikshank became stern.
“What about it, Hurley?” he asked.
“I guess the chief is right,” answered Hurley. “I don’t like it, but what can I do to help it? If the dope peddlers weren’t in town, there wouldn’t be sales anywhere.”
“Correct,” agreed Cruikshank, looking toward Yates. “What have you done toward cleaning up the undesirable spots during the past week?”
“Plenty,” replied Yates. “But I’ve been taking them one by one. Have to, you know, because my force is scattered. But it seems like every time we shut up half a dozen, a flock of new joints bob up. It’s a big job, your honor!”
“Do you believe that your force is inadequate?”