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do business at Sands' joint, the same as he did at the others?"
    "I suppose so. The Silver Cloud isn't much different from any of the others, is it?"
    I had to admit that it wasn't. At Bellevue and Rush, I slowed the Pontiac, saying: "Point out Ginny's building to me, Giselle. I'll drive on past, but I want to make sure which one it is."
    "It's the one on the right. The red brick with the fence."
    I nodded and studied the building as the car crept past. It was a three-story apartment which looked as though it had been remodeled recently. A wide concrete driveway hugged one side, leading to a flat garage at the rear. Though it was nearly one in the p.m., four of the six front apartments had their shades drawn.
    "Where is Ginny's apartment?" I asked.
    "Third floor. Front."
    "When you stopped here this morning, did you park in the driveway or street?"
    "In the driveway, as I told you. I knew I wouldn't be there very long, so I thought it would be all right."
    "Did Richmond tell you to park there?"
    "Well... not exactly."
    "Either he did or he didn't."
    "He didn't tell me to, not this time, but once before, when I was doing an errand for him, he told me to keep his car off the street as much as possible."
    "You weren't using the Caddy then, though, were you?"
    "No. He had a Packard, then. This was the first time I'd used the Caddy."
    I parked the Pontiac. "Okay, kid. See what you can dig out of Ginny. When you get through, go to your hotel and stay there until you hear from me. What room are you in?"
    "Seven-twelve."
    "Stick there, understand? I'm depending on you."
    "I'll be there." She remained in the car, as though trying to make up her mind about something. "Mr... ah... Forbes," she began, coloring slightly, "I don't know how to say this, but—" She unsnapped her purse suddenly and fumbled with her wallet. "I want you to take this money. You'll be having expenses and.... well, please take it, will you?" She thrust Richmond's check and most of the bills at me.
    "Nix, kid, I don't need it," I lied.
    "Please! You said you were an investigator—and, after all, it's mostly because of me that you're in trouble. You can call it a retainer, if you like—but please take it."
    "I don't need that much—"
    "You may. You'll need cash—and I don't want the check. After seeing the blood and... and everything, I couldn't possibly spend the money. You'll be doing me a favor, actually."
    "Okay." I plucked the lettuce from her fingers. "In that case, thanks. I'll give you a receipt later. Incidentally, most people call me Rusty." I rubbed the palm of my hand across the short, thick, reddish growth on my head. "The hair, you know."
    "I'll remember, Rusty." She unlatched the door, then hesitated again. "I'm sorry about all this—about getting you into it, I mean. It'll come out all right, though. I know it will!"
    "Sure," I said.
    She slipped out of the car and smiled reassuringly at me. Then, squaring her shoulders, she walked briskly down the street toward Ginny Evans' apartment. I sat there, trying to figure the score. Nothing seemed to add, though.
    I got the Pontiac rolling.
 
    FOUR. Of Rats and Men
    THE FROLICS CLUB, on Ontario Street in the heart of the gin-and-din area, was as unpretentious as a piccolo in a military band. No ornate neon signs blazed across its two-story facade. No murals depicting intimate female anatomy marred its draped windows. No painted canopy marked its sedately gold-lettered entrance. Nor did a gilded doorman loiter on the sidewalk to give come-on spiels to suckers.
    Just the same, the Frolics catered to a very special clientele, definitely not penny-ante stuff. Big-time horse-players, for instance, who required a quiet place to discuss the antics of the nags at Hawthorne. Well-heeled gamblers whose ears appreciated a respite from the nervous click of dice. Nice-smelling dolls who needed to rest their slender ankles and replenish their juices between calls. Musicians, actors, dancers, singers, con men and