My hand slid over the brass door-knob. I squeezed it, turned slowly. It made no sound as it turned. When it wouldn’t turn any further, I pushed.
I looked into a narrow, dimly lit room full of wooden packing-cases stacked up along the unpapered walls. In the centre of the room was a table and chair. Near the rusty stove stood a truckle bed, covered with a grimy blanket.
Little Louis sat at the table. He had a deck of greasy playing-cards in his hand, and he was laying out a complicated patience game. He raised his head as I stepped into the room.
Little Louis was a hunchback. The complexion of his dried-up face looked as if it had been sand-blasted. His hard little eyes glinted under thick black eyebrows. His shapeless mouth, like a pale pink sausage split in two, hung open.
He stared at me, his right hand, hairy and dirty, edged off the table to his lap.
“Hold it,” I said, lifted the .38.
His mouth tightened, snarled, but his hand crept back on to the table again.
I moved further into the room, closed the door with my heel, advanced.
He watched me, puzzled, suspicious.
“What do you want ?” he asked. His voice was high-pitched, effeminate.