THE UNOFFICIAL SPY
"Craig, do you see that fellow over by the desk, talking to the night clerk?" I asked Kennedy as we lounged into the lobby of the new Hotel Vanderveer one evening after reclaiming our hats from the plutocrat who had acquired the checking privilege. We had dined on the roof garden of the Vanderveer apropos of nothing at all except our desire to become acquainted with a new hotel.
"Yes," replied Kennedy, "what of him?"
"He's the house detective, McBride. Would you like to meet him? He's full of good stories, an interesting chap. I met him at a dinner given to the President not long ago and he told me a great yarn about how the secret service, the police, and the hotel combined to guard the President during the dinner. You know, a big hotel is the stamping ground for all sorts of cranks and crooks."
The house detective had turned and had caught my eye. Much to my surprise, he advanced to meet me.
"Say, - er - er - Jameson," he began, at last recalling my name, though he had seen me only once and then for only a short time. "You're on the Star, I believe?"
"Yes," I replied, wondering what he could want.
"Well - er - do you suppose you could do the house a little - er -=20 favour?" he asked, hesitating and dropping his voice.
"What is it?" I queried, not feeling certain but that it was a
veiled attempt to secure a little free advertising for the
Vanderveer. "By the way, let me introduce you to my friend Kennedy,
McBride."
"Craig Kennedy?" he whispered aside, turning quickly to me. I nodded.