The Cadillac's off-side wing had crashed against the side of the lock-up, splintering the wood. The wing was pushed in and the off-side headlamp was smashed.

Bardin opened the car door and inspected the registration tag.

'Might have guessed it,' he said. 'Jordan's car. Who said he wasn't hopped to the eyebrows?'

'Well, at least he's home,' Conrad returned, and walked over to the entrance to the apartment block. He pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby, followed by Bardin.

A stout pink-and-white reception clerk in a faultlessly fitting tuxedo rested two small white hands on the polished top of the reception desk and raised his pale eyebrows at Conrad with a touch of hauteur.

'Is there something I can do?'

Bardin pushed his bulk forward. He flashed his buzzer and scowled. When he wanted to, he could look tough and ferocious, and he was looking tough and ferocious now.

'Lieutenant Bardin, City police,' he said in a grating voice. 'Jordan in?'

The reception clerk stiffened. His small hands fluttered.

'If you mean Mr. Ralph Jordan; yes, he is in. Did you wish to see him?'

'When did he get in?'

'Just after eight o'clock.'

'Was he drunk?'

'I'm afraid I didn't notice.' The shocked expression on the clerk's face made Conrad grin.

'What time did he go out?'

'Just after six.'

'He's on the top floor, isn't he?'

'Yes.'

'Okay. We're going up. Keep your hands off the telephone if you know what's good for you. This is a surprise visit. Anyone up there with him?'

'Not as far as I know.'

Bardin grunted, then tramped across the pile carpet that covered the halfacre of lobby to the elevator.

'So he went out just after six and got back at eight. That would have given him plenty of time to get to Dead End, do the job and get back again,' he said as the elevator took them swiftly and silently to the top floor.

'Keep your eye on him,' Conrad cautioned as the elevator doors slid back. 'If he's still hopped up he may be dangerous.'

'He won't be the first hop-head I've had to handle, and I bet he won't be the last – worse luck.'

Bardin paused outside the front door to the apartment.

'Hello: the door's open.'

He thumbed the bell-push. Somewhere in the apartment a bell rang sharply. Bardin waited a moment then shoved the front door wide open with his foot and looked into the small lobby.

A door facing them stood ajar.

They waited another moment or so, then Bardin walked into the lobby and pushed open the inner door.

They looked into a big, airy lounge, ablaze with lights. Wine-coloured curtains covered the windows. The walls were grey. There were armchairs, settees, a table or two and a well-equipped cocktail-bar. A television set and a radiogram stood side by side, and on the mantelpiece were glass ornaments, beautifully fashioned and blatantly obscene. Bardin stood looking round, breathing heavily through his nostrils.

'Isn't it wonderful how these punks live?' he said savagely. 'The guy who said virtue is its own reward should take a look at this joint.'

'Your time will come when you get to heaven,' Conrad said with a grin. 'You'll be given a gold-plated revolver and diamonds on your badge. Doesn't seem to be anyone around.'

'Hey! Anyone here?' Bardin bawled in a voice that rattled the windows.

The silence that greeted his shout was as solid and as engulfing as a snowdrift, and as cold.

They exchanged glances.

'Now what?' Bardin said. 'Think he's hiding up some place?'

'Maybe he went out again.'

'That queen would have seen him go.'

'Then let's take a look.'

Conrad crossed the room, rapped on a door to the left, turned the handle and looked into a big airy bedroom. The only furniture except for a white pile carpet was a twelve-foot-wide bed that stood on a two-foot-high dais and looked as lonely as a lighthouse.

'No one here,' Conrad said as he walked into the room.

'Try the bathroom,' Bardin said, his voice sharpening.

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