I had to run back eight pages before I found “Ike Bush, Salt Lake City, 214,” written in the book. The pigeonhole that had that number was empty. I climbed more steps and knocked on a door that had it. Nothing came of that. I tried it two or three times more and then turned back to the stairs.

Somebody was coming up. I stood at the top, waiting for a look at him. There was just light enough to see by.

He was a slim muscular lad in army shirt, blue suit, gray cap. Black eyebrows made a straight line above his eyes.

I said: “Hello.”

He nodded without stopping or saying anything.

“Win tonight?” I asked.

“Hope so,” he said shortly, passing me.

I let him take four steps toward his room before I told him: