From the restaurant I went directly to our room and to bed, where I slept the sleep of exhaustion till some time next forenoon, when I was roused by heavy knocking at my door. When I opened it, two big, red-faced men shouldered in, told me I was under arrest, and ordered me to put on my clothes. I washed and dressed. One of them put handcuffs on me and made me sit in a chair while they searched the room without finding anything that interested them.
The other then produced a bloodstained piece of paper, and, holding it out before my eyes, said:
“Did you ever see that before?”
I looked at it. It was the landlord’s receipt for our room rent. They had found it in a corner of one of Smiler’s pockets. Smiler had continually drummed it into me never to answer any questions in case we were arrested.
“Just clam up, kid. Tell them you’d rather not say anything till you get a lawyer. They might slug you, but don’t talk; that’s your only salvation.”
I remembered his advice and said to them as respectfully as I knew how:
“You gentlemen have arrested me for something, I don’t know what. But I would rather not make any statement till I can see an attorney and get his advice.”
The landlord now came to the room.
“Was this young man in this room night before last?”
“The bed wasn’t slept in,” he replied.