The cotton broker thought it was a good joke, and he explained the whole situation to Terabon and Carline for their entertainment.
“Dalkard called in Policeman Laddam and told him to stand in front of Palura’s, and tell people to watch out. You see, there’s been a lot of complaints about people being short changed, having their pockets picked, and getting doped there, and some people think it doesn’t do the town any good. Some think we got to have Palura’s for the sake of the town’s business. I’m neutral, but I like to watch the fun. We’ll go down there and look in to-night.”
They had dinner, and about 9 o’clock they went around to Palura’s. It was an old market building made over into a pleasure resort, and it filled 300 feet front on Jimpson Street and 160 feet on the flanking side streets. A bright electric sign covered the front 198 with a flare of yellow lights and there was one entrance, under the sign.
As Terabon, Carline, and the cotton broker came along, they saw a tall, broad-shouldered, smooth-shaven policeman in uniform standing where the lights showed him up.
“Watch your pocketbooks!” the policeman called softly to the patrons. “Watch your change; pickpockets, short-changers, and card-stackers work the unwary here! Keep sober—look out for knock-out drops!”
He said it over and over again, in a purring, jeering tone, and Terabon noticed that he was poised and tense. In the shadows on both sides of the policeman Terabon detected figures lurking and he was thrilled by the evident fact that one brave policeman had been sent alone into that deadly peril to confront a desperate gang of crooks, and that the lone policeman gloried to be there.
The cotton broker, neutral that he was, whispered as they disregarded the warnings: “Laddam cleaned up Front Street in six months; the mob has all come up here, and this is their last stand. It’ll hurt business if they close this joint up, because the town’ll be dead, but I wish Palura’d kind of ease down a bit. He’s getting rough.”
Little hallways and corridors led into dark recesses on either side of the building, and faint lights of different colours showed the way to certain things. Terabon saw a wonderfully beautiful woman, in furs, with sparkling diamonds, and of inimitable grace waiting in a little half-curtained cubby hole; he heard a man ask for “Pete,” and caught the word “game” twice. The sounds were muffled, and a sense of repression and expectancy permeated the whole establishment.
They entered a reception room, with little tables 199 around the sides, music blaring and blatant, a wide dancing floor, and a scurrying throng. All kinds were there: spectators who were sight-seeing; participants who were sporting around; men, women, and scoundrels; thugs and their prospective victims; people of supposed allurement; and sports of insipid, silly pose and tricked-up conspicuousness.
Terabon’s gaze swept the throng. Noise and merriment were increasing. Liquor was working on the patrons. The life of Mendova was stirring to blaring music. The big hall was bare, rough, and gaunt. Dusty flags and cobwebs dangled from the rafters and hog-chain braces. A few hard, white lights cast a blinding glare straight down on the heads of the dancers and drinkers and onlookers.