"I'll be hanging around Murry's. Mind you don't tip my mitt. You promised."
***
The Maxwell was one of a dozen hotels along Union Street with narrow front doors between stores, and shabby stairs leading up to second-story offices. The Maxwell's office was simply a wide place in the hall, with a key- and mail-rack behind a wooden counter that needed paint just as badly. A brass bell and a dirty day-book register were on the counter. Nobody was there.
I had to run back eight pages before I found Ike Bush, Salt Lake City, 214 written in the book. The pigeon-hole that had that number was empty. I climbed more steps and knocked on a door that had it. Nothing came of that. I tried it two or three times more and then turned back to the stairs.
Somebody was coming up. I stood at the top, waiting for a look at him. There was just light enough to see by.
He was a slim muscular lad in army shirt, blue suit, gray cap. Black eyebrows made a straight line above his eyes.
I said: "Hello."
He nodded without stopping or saying anything.
"Win tonight?" I asked.
"Hope so," he said shortly, passing me.
I let him take four steps toward his room before I told him:
