The fire escape groans under your weight, the rusted metal protesting each step. You climb fast, your breath coming in short clouds of vapor that mingle with the fog. The window above is slightly ajar—just enough for you to catch the scent of sandalwood and gun oil drifting out. You pause beneath the sill, listening. A floorboard creaks. The telltale click of a revolver being cocked.

You burst through the window in a shower of glass, rolling to your feet with your .38 drawn. The room is dim, lit only by a flickering neon sign outside that casts shifting red light across peeling wallpaper. A man in a pinstripe suit stands frozen by a battered oak desk, his silver pocket watch dangling from his fingers. His face is all sharp angles and old scars—a face you recognize from the police bulletin board. 'Johnny 'Two-Time' Malone,' you growl. 'You got five seconds to tell me why you're tailing my case.'

Malone's grin is all teeth and no warmth. 'Detective, detective...' he tsks, spinning the watch chain around his finger. 'Ain't you the one followin' me?' He nods toward the desk. There, between stacks of marked racing forms, sits a photograph of Mrs. Chase—except she's younger, laughing, her arm linked with Malone's. The wedding ring on her finger glints mockingly in the neon glow. 'Some dames,' Malone sighs, 'they just don't know when to let a good thing lie.'