“You should know.” George looked at the papers strewn over the bed.
“Ah, yes. Sorry about that, Mr. Carey. I meant to clear it up before you came back. But I didn’t have time for more than a glance. I haven’t taken anything, naturally.”
“Naturally. I don’t leave money in hotel rooms.”
“Oh, what a wicked thing to say!” said the visitor skittishly. “Tongue like a whiplash, haven’t we?”
“Well, if you’re not here for money, what are you here for?”
“A bit of a chat, Mr. Carey. That’s all.”
“Do you usually come calling with a gun?”
The visitor looked pained. “Look, chum, how was I to know you’d be reasonable-finding a stranger in your room? Supposing you’d start yelling blue murder and throwing the furniture about. I had to take precautions.”
“You could have asked for me downstairs.”
The visitor grinned slyly. “Could I? Ah, but maybe you don’t know much about these parts, Mr. Carey. All right”-his tone suddenly became businesslike-“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. You promise not to start calling up the management or getting Charlie with me, and I’ll put the gun away. O.K.?”