The cops broke into the gas-filled Manhattan basement with a sense of dreary familiarityspectators at a sad and sordid drama which had been enacted a thousand times before in a thousand other cheap rooms. There was the battered stove with its jets silently exhaling death. There were the whisky bottle and the two unwashed glasses. There was the rumpled bed. There were two figures, a man and a womanmotionless, voiceless, impersonal as dummies.
The woman, Mrs. Virginia Morton, 42, was dead. But the man, a wiry, sandy-haired fellow of 39, was alive. Presently he moaned, sat up and became a...
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