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The hammering came again.

Not my door . . . it’s coming from down the hall.

Jesus! Are they really at it again?

Talk about trying to get the most bang for your buck. . . .

He stood, adjusted the towel, and went to the door.

He opened it a crack and peered out and immediately saw two men in the hallway.

And what the hell are they doing?

* * *

Just before dusk the day before, Canidy, running out of immediate options, reluctantly had gone back to the hotel.

He found the lobby and lounge crowded. There were a few civilians. But the brothel was packed mostly with German and Italian sailors, all drinking and laughing too loudly as they got friendly with Jimmy Skinny’s girls.

No one in the boisterous crowd showed any interest in Canidy as he worked his way through the lobby and started climbing what he realized was the first of seven flights of steps to the top floor.

As he passed each floor, there was at least one hostess leading her client in or out of one of the ten rooms there.

Reaching the top floor, Canidy looked up and down the hall. He saw that there were only four doors on the eighth floor, not one near the other. As he passed Room 802 he thought he heard from inside it the distinct sound of a woman’s deep, rhythmic moans.

I’m not going to have to listen to that all night, am I?

He came to 801, fed the key into the lock, then pulled out his .45. He entered and checked the suite, looking inside its small empty closet, under the iron-frame bed, and then in the tiny full bath. He found nothing unusual.

He glanced around the room and decided that it was much better than he had expected.

Certainly a helluva lot better than Mariano’s dump.

From the looks—there then came from across the hall the distant bam-bam-bam of a headboard hitting against a wall—and the sounds of it—business must be good.

The black iron bed frame held a full-sized mattress. When he pressed his open hand on it, he found that the mattress was reasonably firm and that the well-washed sheets were thin but reasonably comfortable. Side tables were on either side, one with a lamp and one with a box of wooden matches and a tin ashtray.

Canidy dug in his jacket pocket and fished out a cigar stub, and lit it.

He saw on the far side of the suite was a squat couch, the corners of its cloth upholstery threadbare. And, in front of that, a scarred wooden coffee table. His eyes lit up.

On it were two unopened liquor bottles, one of them of the same Italian grappa brandy that Canidy had had a toast with Jimmy Skinny and the other a red wine. Next to that was a plate with two kinds of soft cheeses, a small loaf of bread, a bowl of olives, and a glass jar packed with sardines marinated in what looked like olive oil. And two empty glass jars meant to serve as drinking glasses.

Canidy’s stomach growled.

Jimmy Skinny really knows how to take care of gli amici.

Why did I even think of not staying here?

Simple. Because the clientele seemed to be mostly Krauts—and now the Italian Navy.

Then he looked around the room and then up, along the ceiling.

And because this place is probably one of the bugged ones.

But as long as I keep my head down, eyes open, and mouth shut, I should be fine.