From one room I heard voices. A woman cursed in a shrill hard tone. A man yelled to her to shut up. I walked along the passage, made for the next flight of stairs.
The door behind me jerked open. I glanced around. A thin, miserable-looking woman half fell into the passage. She wore a dirty kimono, and her hair hung loose.
“Save me, mister,” she gasped, crouching against the wall.
A big, red-faced man, in shirt sleeves, stepped into the passage, grabbed the woman by her hair, dragged her into the room again. The door slammed. The woman began to squeal.
Ignoring her, I mounted the next flight of stairs. I was sweating, uneasy. This was a hell of a joint, I decided.
A naked gas-jet burned at the head of the stairs. It hissed and flickered in the draught. I paused as I reached the landing, looked back. Nothing moved. No one showed.
If Little Louis had been telling the truth I was now facing
Bat’s door. I stepped across the passage, put my ear against the door, listened.
A woman said: “God! I’m sick of this. I was crazy to throw in with a mean jerk like you.”
I frowned, slipped back the safety catch of the .38, put my hand on the door handle.