Jimmie Dale pushed the door of the dance hall open, and stepped
nonchalantly inside. It was the usual scene, there was the usual
hilarious uproar, the usual close, almost fetid atmosphere that mingled
the odours of stale beer and tobacco. Baldy Jack's was always popular,
and the place, even for that early hour, was already doing a thriving
business. Jimmie Dale's eyes, from a dozen couples swirling in the
throes of the bunny-hug on the polished section of the floor in the
centre of the hall, strayed over the little tables that were ranged
three and four deep around the walls. At the upper end of the room a
man, fair-haired and neatly dressed, though his clothes were evidently
not those of one in over-affluent circumstances, sat alone at one of the
tables. It might, or might not, be Klanner. Jimmie Dale strolled forward
up the hall, and, as though deliberating over his selection of a seat,
paused by the table. The man looked up. There was a long, jagged scar on
the other's right cheek bone. It was Klanner. Jimmie Dale pulled out a
chair at a vacant table directly behind the other, and sat down. A
waiter, in beer-spotted apron and balancing a dripping tray, came for
his order.
Pages:
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435