The Russ Warner Murder Case

God ways my beat from Times Square to Columbus Circle, the gaudiest, the most violent, the lonesomeest mile in the world. God ways my beat with very Thor as detective Danny Clover. The winds of January begin their unraveling, and Broadway shivers in doorways, submits to the lingering cold touch of their passing without regret.

Huddling against it, turning it back to it. But the wilderness of steel and stone, great to flitter, whispers on the darkness. And Broadway tries again, ventures out, digs down, finds the currency at nighttime. Once more lays its bets against the dealers at night.

Neon is the red and black is the shadows, and the numbers of rooms, free flights up into the hall for a smile-whites, for a tear. It's spinning, kid, make your play. This could be it.

And the dealers pay off in another way. The man who wipes his hands in a bar apron, offers you one. You'd ever been here before you wouldn't say this was the same place, Mr. This time and night, other nights my little place of business is alive.

Teaming with frolic. What changed it tonight? The frolicers was driven away. Yeah, I can see that. Come on, wait what I got for you in the back room. Just wait, I think to see. My back grow, my cribbage room.

Ain't it a Shambles, mister? Who is this man? Worst Shambles of all, ain't he? Russ Warner, citizen of Chicago, two years ago, when he dropped by for a visit, he looked in better health. He dead, mister?

No, shoulder wound. The bill I almost tore apart. He lost a lot of blood. Why didn't you call him ambulance? I did, I did. I was laying myself odd, so I would get here first.