CHAPTER SIXSerious Dancer
Benton Locke lived not far south of Mrs. Gregson’s apartment, but his street ran between elevated railways and had long given up the struggle against shabbiness. Nor had his boarding-house atmosphere. A coat of fresh paint had lately been applied to its vestibule and double front door, but its high porch was grimy. A small place of business—lampshades, Gamadge thought, peering through the gloom of the area—was established in the basement. The combined smells of anesthetics and antiseptics billowed from a pet-hospital across the way.
Gamadge rang the bell. An amiable foreigner in a long black house dress and comfortable slippers opened one of the doors and peered at him through gold-rimmed glasses.
“Mr. Locke?” Gamadge spoke through an ascending blare of radios;
