I managed a grin. “Is something wrong?”
She took her time answering me. Finally she shook her head, looked away from me. “No,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
I tried to act natural, but my voice sounded like the bark from a dictating machine. “Come in, come in,” I said. “Welcome to my little abode. At least it’s comfortable — and private. We’ll be able to talk, and...”
She looked at me again and broke out a hard little smile. “Tell me,” she said, “does the plane still leave at two?”
That didn’t make any more sense than the fact that she’d seemed surprised to see me. I’d told her quite a lot more, about the construction contract and how I had closed it, with the binder check in my pocket, and other stuff. But a nervous guy doesn’t argue. “I thought I explained about that,” I told her. “The plane was booked up solid, and I’m grounded here until tomorrow morning. The home office said to see the town. Have me a really good time. I... thought I’d do it with you.”
“I am indeed flattered,” she said.
She didn’t sound flattered, but I asked her once more to come in, and when she made no move I tried a fresh start. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me your name?” I asked.
Her eyes studied me carefully. “Zita,” she said.
“Just Zita? Nothing more?”
“My family name is Hungarian, somewhat difficult for American. Zita does very well.”
“Mine’s Hull,” I said. “Jack Hull.”
She didn’t say anything. The burn was still in her eyes, and I couldn’t understand it. After the several chats we’d had in the dining room and the lobby, while I waited for lawyers, contractors, and the rest during the week I’d been here, I couldn’t figure it at all. There wasn’t much I could do about it, but there’s a limit to what you can take, and I was getting a burn myself.
I was still trying to think of something to say when the door of the elevator opened, and out stepped a cute blonde in a maid’s uniform — short skirt and apron and cap, and all. I’d seen her once or twice around the hotel, but I’d paid no attention to her.
She smiled quick at me, but gasped when she saw who I was talking to. “Mademoiselle!” she said, in the same accent as Zita’s. “Mademoiselle!” Then she bobbed up and down, bending her knees and straightening them, in what seemed to be meant for bows.
But if Zita minded her being there, she didn’t show it at all. She said something to her in Hungarian, and then turned back to me. In English, she said, “This is Maria, Mr. Hull — the girl with whom you have the date.”
“I have the — what?”
“Your date is with Maria,” she said.
I stared at her, and then at Maria, and then at Zita again. If this was a joke, I didn’t feel like laughing.
“I heard Maria’s telephone conversation with you,” Zita said. “I did not know it was you then, of course, but I heard her repeat your room number.” She smiled again. “And I heard her say something about wine.”
“Listen—” I began.
“Wine...” she said. “How romantic.”
“I ordered the wine for you,” I told her. “My date was wit you, not with—”
“Yes, the wine,” she said. “Where was it to be served? On the plane perhaps? It leaves at two, you said, when you told me goodbye a little while ago. You made me feel quite sad. But at two o-clock, with a smile, comes Maria.”
I knew by then what had happened, and how important it is to get names straight before you phone — and to make sure of the person you’re talking to before you do any asking. It put quite a crimp in my pitch, and I guess I sounded weak when I go the blueprints out and tried to start all over again.
“Please,” Zita said. “Don’t apologize for the maid. She is very pretty, Mr. Hull. Very pretty.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but she didn’t wait to hear it. She went off down the hall, switching her hips very haughtily. She didn’t stop for the elevator, but left by way of the stairs.
I looked at the blonde maid. “Come in, Maria,” I said. “We’ve got a little talking to do.”
I had some idea of a message, which Maria could deliver when the situation cooled down a bit. But by the time I’d closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I’d closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I’d come to the conclusion that a message was not such a good idea. So I got my wallet out, took out a ten, and handed it to Maria. “I’m sorry,” I told her, “that we had to have this mix-up. I think you see the reason. Over the telephone, to an American, one accent sounds pretty much like another. I hope your feelings aren’t hurt, and that this little present will help.”
Judging by her smile, it helped quite a lot. But as she started toward the door, something started to nag at me. “What a minute,” I said. “Sit down.”
She sat down on the edge of my sofa, crossing her slim legs while I cogitated, and trying to tug the short skirt down over her knees. It was quite a display of nylon, and it didn’t make it any easier for me to think. She was an extremely well-built girl, this Maria, and she had the legs to go with the short skirt. I looked the other way, and tried to figure out this point that had popped into my mind.
“There’s an angle I don’t get, Maria,” I said. “What was she doing here?”
“You mean Mademoiselle Zita?”
I turned around to face her. “What did she come here for?”
“Didn’t she tell you?”
“Not a word. Listen, I can’t be mistaken. She knew romance was here — with wine ordered, who wouldn’t? But she didn’t know I was here. Until she saw me, I was just Mr. X. Why would she buzz Mr. X?”
I closed my eyes, working on my little mystery, and when I opened them Maria was no longer a maid making a tip. She was a ferret, watching me in a way that told me she knew the answer all right, and hoped to make it pay. That suited me fine. I got out another ten.
“Okay,” I said. “Give.”
She eyed my wallet.
She eyed my ten-spot.
She picked it up.
“It baffles me,” she said.
“Listen,” I told her. “I’m paying you.”
She walked to the door and opened it part way. She hesitated a moment, and then pushed the door shut again and walked back to where I was standing. She looked me straight in the eye, and now she was smiling. It wasn’t an especially pretty smile.
“Well?” I said.
The door buzzer sounded.
“Heavens!” Maria whispered. “I mustn’t be seen here I’d compromise you, Mr. Hull. I’ll wait in the bathroom.”
I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising you, Mr. Hull. I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising was. But as I stepped into the foyer I was thinking about Zita. I was sure it was she, back to tell me some more.
I turned the knob, and then the door banged into my face. When the bells shook out of my ears, a guy was there. He stood in the middle of the living room floor, a big, think-shouldered character in Hollywood coat and slacks.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked him. “And what the hell do you want?”
“My wife’s all I want, Mister. Where is she?”
“Wife?”
“Quit acting dumb! Where is she?”
I heard the sharp sound of high heels on the floor behind me. “But, Bill!” Maria said. “What is this?”