The business curve of the fifteen-cent flophouses took a big upward swing. It figured. The stink and vermin of the cheap beds were lesser evils than the chill rawness of the Plaza benches.

The bums and floaters who had panhandled the price in the course of the day disappeared into the murky halls and up the creaking wooden stairs of a dozen of these rat traps. The others just continued on their way, wandering aimlessly.

Detective Sergeant Brady of the downtown station stopped to light a cigarette before he went into Carrol’s Bar and Grill. With a cigarette dangling between his lips, he might possibly be able to affect a sort of casualness that could help to disguise somehow the cop which otherwise stood out glaringly all over him.

He cupped the cigarette in his hand, shielding the match against the cold wet wind. While he paused there, outside Carrol’s, a middle-aged, stubbly faced tramp in a broad-brimmed Western hat came shambling up, already going into his spiel when he was five feet away.

“It’s a lousy night, mister, and you look like you could spare it. Only a dime. Only a dime for one lousy cuppa coffee.”

“On your way,” Brady muttered. The panhandler seemed to shrink back into the darkness. Brady pushed the blue enameled door open and walked in.

The saloon was crowded.

Small parties of men and women sat in the booths near the wall, talking and laughing noisily. A row of broken-down men sat lined along the bar—drunks in varying stages of cheer and despondency.

Five B-girls in cheap evening gowns sat on the high stools scattered down the length of the bar. The deep necks of their gowns revealed their breasts—some big, others scrawny. The men clustered about the five allowing the bartender to refill their glasses before their drinks were half finished. Down at the end of the bar, one of the drunks was trying to put his hand in one of the girls’ dress-fronts. He got a good squeeze of a breast that had seen better days before, giggling and squealing shrilly, the girl pushed him away.

At the farthest end of the room, Sergeant Brady saw Carrol, the proprietor, leaning against the big, shiny record player. The juke was going full blast. Carrol glanced solemnly at Brady, his face not displaying the faintest show of recognition. He covered his wide mouth with the hand that had been supporting his chin, and watched as Brady squeezed in between two customers at the bar.