"Well?" he said with a near cockney accent.

"Madeleine Poirier? She live here?"

"Maybe. Who're you?"

"Which apartment?" asked Shannon, ignoring the question.

"She ain't in. Saw her leave a couple of hours ago," the little man told him snidely, working his milky-eyes up and down Shannon's face once more. "Who're you, anyway?"

"Her brother."

His pinched face twisted into a contemptuous grin. "Now I've got yuh, wise guy. You don't look like her; you don't look French either. So, let's try a better one, eh…"

Shannon lost patience. He caught him by his long necktie, winding it around his big hand until his fist was shutting off the breath in the other's windpipe. "Which apartment, Pop?" he hissed without moving his lips.

The Englishman attempted to swallow. It seemed difficult. "You… you better not try any rough stuff here, mister," he gasped, the haze temporarily clearing from his eyes. "This is a respectable house, see… No rough stuff… I… I don't know anything about her… I ain't sure she lives here… okay…?"

Shannon let go of him and stepped back. He sighed and brought bills from his pocket, peeling off one of the precious tens and extending it to him.

"W-Well… well," the little man stammered, simultaneously massaging his throat while his eyes darted from the money up to Shannon's face. "W-Why didn't you say you were her brother?" He made a more acceptable grin and grabbed at the money, shoving it deep into his shirt pocket. "Follow me… I'll let you in to wait for her, eh? She ought to be 'long any time. Been gone quite awhile now." He winked and spun around.

"Thanks," said Shannon drily, falling in behind him to climb the stairs.

"Yeah…" he repeated as he led the way to the third floor, "… should've told me that in the first place, mister…"