At the hotel, I took a few hours of sleep and a shave, then tried my luck in the coffee shop downstairs. Sipping coffee, I meditated on that Plaza Number.
Hell. I’d call the number later in the morning and see which branch of Murder, Inc. answered. But first I’d visit my brother and his loving wife at home.
Outside, a weak sun struggled with the cold February air and pale, harried subway folk were being disgorged by the kiosks onto the chilly sidewalks. I walked east.
The building in which Ken lived was a couple of blocks north of the Waldorf Astoria. A liveried doorman admitted me with a patronizing smirk which said my trench-coat and hatless head rated the front entrance only by a whisker or because the old lady had fixed him a good breakfast that morning.
The sixth-floor hallway spo
