This was not the regular nightclub but a big anteroom off it; at night it was mostly used by people waiting for tables, but from five to seven it was a prosperous cocktail lounge. The cocktail maitre d’ bowed low. “A table, Mr. Corday? We don’t often get honored this way.” “Yes, I’d like a table, Ernest. Small one will do. I’m not expecting anyone.” Palmer was not in sight, neither was Jim Latson. Dave Corday, a man not given to public drinking, had not changed his tastes; he was there to watch Latson squirm. It was an absolute certainty that the chief would show here, wanting to find out as soon as possible what Ronald Palmer was asking for his silence. Hating Latson as he did, Corday still had a twinge of sympathy for him. They were both public figures, politicians in a sense, and blackmailers were, of all criminals, the only ones they feared. Ernest himself brought the Bloody Mary Corday had ordered.
