“That’s about played out now. I’d like to try throwing her in the can for thirty days. Big Flora is in waiting trial. The Angel knows Flora was one of the troupe that rubbed out her Paddy. Maybe Flora don’t know the Angel. Let’s see what will come of mixing the two babies for a month.”
“Can do,” Duff agreed. “This Angel’s got no visible means of support, and it’s a cinch she’s got no business running around jumping in people’s bays. I’ll put the word through.”
From the Hall of Justice I went up to the Ellis Street hotel at which Tom-Tom Carey had told me he was registered. He was out. I left word that I would be back in an hour, and used that hour to eat. When I returned to the hotel the tall swarthy man was sitting in the lobby. He took me up to his room and set out gin, orange juice and cigars.
“Seen Angel Grace?” I asked.
“Yes, last night. We did the dumps.”
“Seen her today?”
“No.”
“She jumped in the bay this afternoon.”
“The hell she did.” He seemed moderately surprised. “And then?”
“She was fished out. She’s OK.”
The shadow in his eyes could have been some slight disappointment.
“She’s a funny sort of kid,” he remarked. “I wouldn’t say Paddy didn’t show good taste when he picked her, but she’s a queer one!”
“How’s the Papadopoulos hunt progressing?”