Simon Templar went downstairs again for a drink, and Wolcott Gibbs waved to him across the lobby, and they spent a couple of congenial hours lamenting the sad standards of the current season on Broadway; and all the time Simon was watching the clock and wondering what held back the hands.
It was fifteen hours, or minutes, after seven when the call came.
"Merry Christmas," she said.
"And a happy new year to you," he said. "What goes?"
"Darling," she said, "I forgot that I had a date with my arranger to go over some new songs. So I had to rush out. What are you doing?"
"Having too many drinks with Wolcott Gibbs."
"Give him my love."
"I will."
"Darling," she said, "there's a hotel man from Chicago in town — he used to come and hear me bellow when I was at the Pump Room — and he wants me to go to dinner. And I've got to find myself another job."
He felt empty inside, and unreasonably resentful, and angry because he knew it was unreasonable.