Chapter VIII
McQuade and Martin entered a cafe popular for its noon lunches. It was hot weather in July, and both were mopping their bald foreheads, their faces and necks. The white bulldog trotted along behind, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled under the table, grateful for the cold stone tiling.
"What do you know about this fellow Warrington?" asked McQuade, tossing his hat on one of the unoccupied chairs.
"The fellow who writes plays?"
"Yes. What do you know about him?"
"Why, he used to peddle vegetables and now he owns a swell place on Williams Street."
"Gamble?"
"Not that I know of. I never go into Pete's myself. It wouldn't be good business. But they tell me Warrington used to drop in once in a while, when he was a reporter, and choke his salary to death over the roulette table."
"Doesn't gamble now?"
"Not in any of the joints around town."