ordered another drink. When it was put down in front of him he drank slowly and stared with troubled eyes at the row of bottles on the opposite counter. He still wondered about Austin, although he was not much worried since he did not believe the picture of the sedan would turn out to be of any value. He was much more worried about Finell, and the picture of Lyda Hoyt that had been stolen from his desk. It made him so discouraged thinking about it that in the end he gulped his drink and turned away, heading for the telephone.
Bernie Dixon was just crossing the room from the direction of the booth. He did not appear to see Casey, but continued to the stairs to the gambling-room above. Casey watched him go before he asked for the hospital
Wade opened up the moment he heard Caseyâs voice. âListen,â he protested. âDo I have to sit here all night?â
âHas Finell come to yet?â
âNo. And if I donât get a drink Iâm going to crawl in with him.â
âAll right,â Casey said. âWeâll call it off for tonight.â
âWhat about the drink?â
âQuit crabbinâ and Iâll buy you one.â
âYes, you will,â Wade scoffed. âAt this hour?â
âYes, at this hour,â Casey said and gave him the address of the house. âGrab yourself a cab and come on out. And listen, if they stop you at the door just ask for Nick and mention my name.â
He hung up and stood for a moment fighting off the pressure of weariness and dejection before he opened the door and stepped out. As he turned he bumped into a man and would have knocked him down had he not grabbed him in time. Then he saw who it was.
âFlash Casey.â A slender, angular fellow with rimless glasses and rumpled blond hair was grinning at him. His name was McCann and he was a free-lance, publicity man. Right now he was pretty drunk, but the most startling thing about him was the sheaf of money in his hand. âOlâ Flash, olâ boy, olâ boy.â
âHi, Mac,â Casey said.
McCann patted him on the shoulder with a limp, double-action movement of his wrist. âTake a look,â he said and waved the bills under Caseyâs nose. âSmell it. Brother, am I hot.â
âDamned if youâre not,â said Casey.
âCount it.â McCann slapped the bills into Caseyâs palm. âGo ahead. Tell me how hot I am.â
Casey took the money. There was a $20 and a $10 and 12 new $50âs. âSix hundred and thirty bucks.â
âWeâll double it.â McCann gave him that double-action wrist again and took his arm. âCome on. Up we go.â
âWait a minute.â Casey pulled him to a stop. âLetâs go home and celebrate,â he said. âWeâll get a cab.â
McCann gave him a sly leer. He shook his finger. âNo, you donât.â
Casey grinned in spite of himself. No one was dumber than a foxy drunk. Heâd been that way himself, spending hours trying to outsmart himself just as McCann was going to do. âGet smart,â he said, making a last attempt. âYou got yours, get out. Go back upstairs and youâll drop the works.â
âWho cares?â McCann said. âI like to see that little ball go roundânâround.â
Casey sighed and took his arm. In his condition McCann would never get out of the place with that money, but Casey made up his mind to see that he lost it legitimately.
They went to the rear of the room and opened a door and climbed the stairs; then they were in a narrow hall that had two abrupt angles in it, at the edge of which were sliding steel doors, now retracted. Beyond was a low-ceilinged room, smoke-filled, softly, lighted, and quiet. At the far end was a cashierâs window; on either side were crap tables and in the center two roulette layouts. Only one was operating now and there were but five players, four men, one