Spotter emitted a sudden laugh. His craftiness returned; he was again the smooth worker of the underworld.
“Listen, Reds,” he said. “You know where old Crippled Carrie lives, don’t you? — Well, there’s an empty room up there — at the head of the stairs. It used to belong to a guy that got bumped off.
“I’ve got the key. When I find Birdie Crull, I’ll give him the key so he can be waiting for you there.”
“When will that be?”
“In a couple of days, I think.”
“Well, I can wait a week. Tell you what you do, Spotter. You leave me a note here, with the barkeep. Put the address in it — I’m not sure just where the place is — and the time.
“I’ll be going by here every day. I’ll pick it up, after you leave it. Drop it here in the afternoon. Arrange the meeting in the evening.”
“Maybe—”
“It’s safe, Spotter. Nothing’s been done yet. There’s no crime in my meeting Birdie Crull. Don’t put his name in it. Just the address, and the time.”
“O.K., Reds.”