He waited until she had crossed to him, smiled ingenuously. “Gerry in the hay, baby,” he said gently. “Mister Kells in public.”
She laughed softly — a metallic softness.
Kells asked: “Did you get my note?” Uh huh.” She spoke rapidly, huskily. “I woke up right alter you left, I guess. Your phone’s been raising bloody hell. I’m going home and get some sleep...”
She held out a closed, black-gloved hand; Kells took his key.
He said: “Come on back upstairs — I’ve found a swell spot for your stuff.”
“Oh — yeah?” Her face brightened.
They went to the elevator, up to Kells’ room. Granquist sat in a steel-gray leather chair with her back to the windows, and Kells walked up and down.
“Lee Fenner has been the boss of this town for about six years,” he said. “The reform element moved in last election, but Fenner’s kept things pretty well under control — he has beautiful connections all the way to Washington...”
He paused while Granquist took out tobacco and papers, started to roll a cigarette.
“You wanted to sell your stuff to Fay for five grand,” he went on. “If it’s as good as you think it is we can get fifteen from Fenner... That’s ten for you and five for me” — he smiled a little — “as your agent...”