Garth ordered him ahead while he pressed the control of his pocket lamp. They continued between grim walls, splashed with mold, beaded with moisture, offering the appearance and the odor of a neglected tomb. They paused before an oak door.
"Don't open," Garth whispered. "Let me get my fingers on the latch."
"Maybe it's locked on the other side," Marlowe whispered back.
But when Garth tried the latch noiselessly he found that the door would open.
"I don't trust you, Papa," he said, "but if you want to make yourself solid at headquarters find a policeman and tell him what I'm up against."
The round, white face leered.
"The cops and I seem hand and glove these days. What are you up against, Mr. Garth? What you want in that empty cellar?"
Garth waved him away; watched him retreat towards the stairs, squinting his beady eyes, mouthing unintelligibly.
The detective snapped off his light, aware that he faced the critical moment. He opened the door and stepped into the black pall of the warehouse cellar. His memory reinforced him. Other members of the bureau had taken equal risks, had followed into such places criminals as desperate as the ones who held Nora. Moreover, they had lacked the impulse of a vigorous personal motive. They had answered only to the stimulation of duty. Not
