She let her voice drift into silence, pressed her ear against the door, and listened. She heard nothing. He might have hurried off to lunch, or for a drink at the Woodland Cabaret. Probably he just went for a smoke.

She tried to calculate which would be worse: To wait for Max to return, which could take hours or minutes, and she might not get her nickel, either.

Or she could go inside—easy if the door was unlocked, not much harder if it wasn’t. She grasped the doorknob and turned it. Locked.

She knew what to do. Mugsy had shown her, when they broke into the building where the carved wooden carousel horses were stored all winter. Padlocks could be picked with a pin or nail: this wasn’t a padlock but a cheap tumbler of soft metal. She kept hold of the knob and wrenched it back and forth, not exerting too much pressure as the knob met resistance, until the tumbler gave way, and she slipped inside.

The dim room was permeated by the rancid smell of old cold cream and kerosene from the lantern, now extinguished. Max’s makeup and the French postcards had been cleared away, along with the false eyelashes and other remnants of his stage act. The Hotel Buckminster ashtray where he tossed his change held a single quarter.

She hesitated before taking it. She’d never seen the ashtray when it wasn’t full of coins. Maybe he’d taken them to the bank, the way her mother did. But why leave a quarter?

It must have been intended as her streetcar fare. Max had set it aside, and they’d both forgotten about it.

Yet a quarter was far too much money. What if it was a mistake, what if he hadn’t left it for her but only forgotten it?

She rocked from one foot to the other, tormenting herself with indecision. A quarter would be enough to get there and back; she’d bring the change to Max. He’d understand; he’d know she hadn’t stolen it. Even if he didn’t, she was fast. She’d be gone before he could strike her. She grabbed the coin, stuck it in her pocket, and darted back to the door.

A man stood there. When she ran into him, he fell, and she struck out wildly, her arms enfolded by something soft as she jerked backward, stumbling against a chair.

It was not a man, but the seersucker suit that had been hanging by the door. Panicked, she replaced the trousers on the hanger, then fumbled with the jacket. Something dropped from one of its pockets, a large leather envelope that spilled its contents onto the floor. A deck of playing cards. She stooped and frantically gathered them up.