The Negress shook her head. “Ain’ no girl in heah. Ain’ been no girl in heah wearin’ no dress lak dat.”
Shayne’s eyes glowed hotly. He swung around and started toward the end of the hall.
A burly man stepped into the hall from a side door near the end. Hulking shoulders strained the seams of a gray suit. His face was pock-marked, his jaw heavy and set, his eyes small.
He put his hands on his hips and confronted Shayne. “Whatcha doin’ here? Comin’ out the ladies’ room?”
“I’m looking for a girl. She’s wearing a green dress.”
“She ain’t here,” the man grated. “Beat it.”
The grooves in Shayne’s cheeks deepened. “Where’s Henri Desmond?”
He heard footsteps in the hall behind him as the man growled, “He ain’t here neither.”
Shayne turned to look at the man sauntering toward them. He wore a double-breasted blue suit, a black fedora, and round-toed black shoes. He might as well have worn a sign saying Plain-Clothes Dick. He looked past Shayne and asked, “Trouble, Bart?”
“This here guy,” said Bart, “claims he’s lookin’ for a dame that’s got lost.”