Thus Gillman, virtually shadowed by three, made his way to his destination, which proved to be a restaurant in the lower part of the town—a place famous for the low price of its “table d’hote dinner with wine.”
There he and Nick had dinner, the man in the brown derby remaining on the walk outside and Chick watching from across the street.
The meal over, the tactics were continued, Gillman leading the chase to Brooklyn, crossing by ferry and winding up at Boucicault’s on Hamilton Street.
It was between eight and nine in the evening, and Hamilton Street was just “waking up.”
A sleepy and quiet thoroughfare by day, it is anything but sleepy and quiet under the gas and electric lights.
“Speak-easies” and other haunts of vice abound, and not the least among the lawless resorts was Boucicault’s.
There were three stories to the building, and Boucicault’s occupied all three, in addition to a good-sized basement.
Of the basement more will be said hereafter.
The main floor was given up to a saloon and restaurant.
The floors above constituted the hotel part of the establishment, and here many a drunken victim had been plucked by the human harpies who made the place their rendezvous.