At last it was time to saunter around to the Vesper Club without
seeming to be too indecently early. The theatres were not yet out, but
my friend said play was just beginning at the club and would soon be
in full swing.
I had a keen sense of wickedness as we mounted the steps in the yellow
flare of the flaming arc-light on the Broadway corner not far below
us. A heavy, grated door swung open at the practised signal of my
friend, and an obsequious negro servant stood bowing and pronouncing
his name in the sombre mahogany portal beyond, with its green marble
pillars and handsome decorations. A short parley followed, after which
we entered, my friend having apparently satisfied someone that we were
all right.
We did not stop to examine the first floor, which doubtless was
innocent enough, but turned quickly up a flight of steps. At the foot
of the broad staircase Kennedy paused to examine some rich carvings,
and I felt him nudge me. I turned. It was an enclosed staircase, with
walls that looked to be of re-enforced concrete. Swung back on hinges
concealed like those of a modern burglar-proof safe was the famous
steel door.
We did not wish to appear to be too interested, yet a certain amount
of curiosity was only proper.
My friend paused on the steps, turned, and came back.
"You're perfectly safe," he smiled, tapping the door with his cane
with a sort of affectionate respect. "It would take the police ages to
get past that barrier, which would be swung shut and bolted the moment
the lookout gave the alarm.
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