“Thank you. The boy leaves everything and rushes off.” Her English was more careful than accented, and she was not as old as Richie's description would have led him to believe. Forty five, possibly. She was tall and inclined to plumpness, and what had been dark hair was liberally streaked with gray. Her face was lined, but the remnants of what must once have been striking good looks were still evident, if you excepted the eyes. Johnny felt that he had seen eyes like that before: dead, with scarcely enough spark in them to betray a discernible emotion.
“It's his youth. We'll correct him.”
“Not too harshly, I trust.” She smiled as she spoke, and Johnny returned the smile. With a nod of his head he indicated the withdrawn chair, and he slipped it forward beneath her as she seated herself. She glanced back over her shoulder as she picked up her napkin. “You are from Europe?”
“I've been there. Not lately.”
She nodded in satisfaction at a solved problem. “That is where you learned the European style of service.”
“It's a different life. A different world.”
“That is so, indeed.” She looked down at her plate, and he turned to leave. At the door he could see that although she had not turned her head more than a few degrees she could observe him from the corner of her eye. He closed the door softly from the outside, pivoted, and almost bumped into Ronald Frederick. The manager sidestepped, murmured an apology and was three strides on past when second thought pulled him up short. He paused and turned.
“Johnny? In uniform? On this shift? And on room service?”
Johnny cursed his luck, and the tray under his arm. The chance of running into Freddie like this was infinitesimal, but here he was. “Just tradin' a couple hours with one of the kids.”
Ronald Frederick stared. “Indeed? I'd scarcely have thought you felt it necessary.”
“Owed the kid a favor.” He tried to keep his voice light; he groped for a diversion. “Had a call from Joe Dameron today.”
The little man smiled briefly. “I'm afraid we're not in the lieutenant's good graces. Too many unexplained-ah- events.”
“Joe figures to explain 'em. Had me looking at a million pictures. They identified the guy Dutch got, you know. Frenchy somethin'-or-other from the coast. Joe thought I might recognize someone I'd seen him with around here.”
“But you didn't.”
“That's right… I didn't.”
“Of course I suppose I realized at least subconsciously that the police were still working on the-ah-homicides, but when there is so little surface activity-”
“Joe's a whittler and a bulldog. Don't underestimate him.”
“I'm not inclined to. You're taking your regular shift?”
“Sure thing.”
The manager nodded and turned to go. Whatever he had been given to ponder in the conversation did not prevent his quick but thorough scrutiny of the number of the room from which Johnny had emerged, and Johnny shook his head as he started in the opposite direction for the elevator. So much for the attempted diversion; a rearguard action was now indicated.
He dropped Richie's tray off in the kitchen and continued on through the huge room which was a beehive of controlled frenzy at the height of the dinner hour. He went out past the bar to the lobby and across to the telephone switchboard, where he interrupted Myrna's drowsy gum-chewing in the mealtime lull on the board.
In the light of Sally's warning he would have liked to have had a story ready with which to go up against this girl, but now there was no time. This one he would have to play by ear.
Myrna Hansen was a slender girl whose very ordinary features were dwarfed by large horn-rimmed glasses, and both features and glasses were dominated in turn by a tousled mop of orange-tinted hair. The eyes behind the horn rims were an indeterminate shade of blue, and set a little closely together, and they examined his uniform at first sleepily and then more alertly as she nodded to him. “You're quite a stranger, Johnny. Someone sick on this shift?”
“Tradin' a few hours. How you doin', sugarpuss?”
The thin mouth pursed itself appraisingly. “Skip the preliminaries, man. If you want something, say so.”
Johnny changed gears. “Matter of fact, I do. I wanted to say thanks.”
The glasses estimated him carefully. “Thanks? To me?”
“Yeah. Ma told me how you'd rolled out of the bunk to make room for me.”
“Oh, that.” She settled back in her chair. “She shouldn't have told you that. Sally's a little naive in a lot of ways.”
“And you're not?”
She looked at him levelly. “That's right, Johnny. I'm not.”
“I believe you,” he grinned at her, “but regardless, I figure I owe you a little something. I like to pay my bills.”
She sat there with the orange head under the headphone cocked suspiciously to one side, testing his voice for hidden inflections. “Am I supposed to ask how you'd like to pay this one?”
He shrugged. “You did me a favor, kid. I'd scratch your back for free when you gave me the word. You want a dress pressed? A cake baked? A car stolen? A church bombed? A man killed? Call Johnny. Service with a smile.”
“I see.” She looked up at him thoughtfully, started to say something, and changed her mind. When she did speak it was briskly. “I'll take it under advisement. Meantime, now that you've made your little speech, why did you really stop here?”
This time his grin was reluctant; this was a shrewd little witch. “That's the next order of business, but don't forget I meant what I said.” He leaned forward over the railing. “In the next thirty minutes you're gonna get a call on the board here from outside.” She watched him carefully as he spoke. “The caller is going to ask you about the atomic blonde dazzler in 1224.”
Her eyes left his face to range the alphabetized room listing posted at the right of her switchboard, and her voice was flat and positive when she looked back at him. “1224's no atomic blonde dazzler.”
“But you're goin' to say she is. You can send me the bill.”
“I don't send bills,” she said coolly. “I collect dividends.”
Johnny had already made up his mind. He took a small notebook from his uniform breast pocket and handed it to her. “Scribble your name and address in here so I can add you to my Christmas list.”
She took the notebook, hesitated, and handed it back to him. “You can write, can't you? Here's a pen.”
Shrewd. Nothing in her own handwriting. He opened the notebook and reached for the pen. “Shoot.”
She withdrew the pen. “On second thought, I don't believe I want my name and address in your little black book. I could be in bad company. You know where to find me. If and when it becomes dividend time, you can put it in a bushel basket, and leave it right here.”
Johnny returned the notebook to his pocket. “It does simplify things, doesn't-”
The switchboard buzzed, and she held up a warning finger. “Good evening, Hotel Duarte. May I help you?” As she listened her head swung sharply from the board around to Johnny. “What room number was that again, please?” Slim fingers twisted the phone cord. “You know I'm not supposed to give out information like that, don't you? I could get in trouble.” She leaned back in her chair so that she could watch Johnny's expression. “I'd have to know who was calling.” A corner of the thin mouth quirked upward. “Well, I suppose if it's only idle curiosity… well, yes. That's right. Yes. Very striking. Yes.” She reached for the key. “No. Blonde. Yes. You're welcome.” She flipped the key and turned back to Johnny. “Well?”