In the Sunday morning quiet of Manhattan's upper west side, two men entered the Hotel Monticello, went directly to room 831. There they found a youngish man in red silk pajamas sitting on the bed drinking orange juice. He had sat up late the night before, reading the New York Times. A chorus girl was tubbing in the bathroom, the three men went into room 829. A volley of shots shattered out. Then the two callers left as quietly as they had come. The chorus girl disappeared.
Some time later the manager of the...
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