"Where does she work?"
"Down in Wall Street."
"Not much chance we're interested. This money has been turning up around Times Square."
"The other's a man—quiet, no trouble, pays his rent right on the dot every week. John Dennis his name is and he doesn't look like no counterfeiter."
Taber took a forward step. "What's his room number?"
"Six—on the second floor. But he isn't in now. He just went out."
"Okay. Maybe I'll be back. As I said, we don't suspect anybody. We're just checking for sources."
Taber turned toward the door. The woman vanished back into her own quarters as Taber snapped the lock. He stood in the vestibule for a minute or two, studying some cards he took from his pocket, and when she did not reappear, he opened the door, went back in, and climbed the stairs.
The door to number six was not locked. Taber went inside. The window was small and gave on an areaway. He could see nothing until he turned on the light. Even then, he could see nothing of interest—the room was ordinary in every sense.
But as Brent Taber checked it out, some unusual aspects became apparent. There were two pieces of luggage in the closet. One, an oversized suitcase, stood on end.