The first youngsters I asked to direct me to Mr. Tadross just stared out of big black eyes, backed away from me, and ran. Finally I found an old man with a sweet, sorrowful face like that of a saint in those old Italian paintings; he directed me down a moldering hall, up a flight of stairs to a sort of rickety balcony opening onto a tiny court full of washing on clotheslines, trash barrels, and baby carriages.
There weren’t any numbers on the doors. I called, “Tadross,” a couple of times; he came out of one of the doors. A fat man with eyes sunk deep in bulgy sacs, a bulbous chin, he was in his undershirt and a pair of those pointed, heelless slippers.
He was glad to see me, until I told him what I wanted.
“I don’t know any girl of that name, Mister Vine. Has she done something bad?” He gazed at me fearfully.
“Not as far as I know. She can help get one of our room-service captains out of a mess, Tadross. Auguste. You know Auguste.”
His face lighted up.
“Oh, yes. He’s in trouble?”
“They’ve arrested him for something he didn’t do. But this Narian girl may be able to fix it.”
“One moment.” He disappeared into his room, came out directly in an embroidered silk jacket. “We will see.”
We went along the balcony, down the stairs, back through the black tunnel of the hall. On the street he asked me to wait.