“I don’t want my name in the paper, and we don’t want nothing written about this place!”
“Take it easy,” Jerry advised. “Your name won’t be in the paper. We’re only looking for a man. Now lead us to him.”
“When people take rooms or a bed in this place they got a right to privacy,” the woman argued unpleasantly. “It ain’t none o’ my business what folks have done that come here.”
“We want to talk to this man who registered as Smith. Either take us to him, or we’ll have to call in the police. I’m a personal friend of Joe Grabey, the patrolman on this beat.”
“I was only kiddin’,” the woman said hastily. “You can talk to him if he’s here.”
Locking the office door behind her, the woman led the pair down a narrow corridor with rooms on either side. A door stood open. Penny caught a glimpse of a cell-like chamber, furnished only with a sagging bed, soiled blankets, and a rickety dresser. The dingy walls were lined with pegs.
“Those nails are for hanging up clothes, and symbolize a man’s rise in the world,” Jerry pointed out to her. “Men who patronize the flops usually have only the suit on their backs. But when they make a little money and get two suits, they need a safe place to keep the extra clothes during the day. So they rent one of these tiny rooms which can be locked.”
Leading the way down a dark hall to the very end, the landlady opened a door. This room with paper-thin walls, sheltered perhaps twenty men, each cot jammed close to its neighbor. The air was disagreeable with the odor of strong disinfectant which had been used on the bare wood floor.
The room now was deserted save for a man in baggy black trousers who sat on one of the cots, reading a comic magazine. Other beds were made up, but empty.
“Is that man Ben Smith?” Penny asked in disappointment, for he bore not the slightest resemblance to the picture of Mr. Rhett.