The Locklear Apartment Hotel managed to surround itself with an atmosphere of quiet luxury, an aloof reserve, well calculated to put outsiders on the defensive.
The clerk who stood behind the counter was somewhere in the early thirties — tall, slender, suave, and well groomed. He watched Bertha Cool approaching his desk, and imperceptibly his demeanour stiffened as he observed Bertha’s free-swinging stride, the manner in which she brushed aside all swank luxury of the lobby.
The clerk’s hair was brushed and oiled into sleek lustre. His eyebrows, arched and regular, managed to elevate themselves just enough to put Bertha on the defensive, had Bertha been the type to be put on the defensive by anything less than a battleship.
“Good afternoon,” the clerk said in the tone he would have used in greeting an interior decorator who had been summoned by the management. Not quite the tone he reserved for trades-men, yet definitely not the voice which he would use in addressing an honoured guest.
Bertha wasted no time being polite. “You have a Mrs. Cornish staying here — Dolly Cornish?”
“Ah, yes— Mrs. Cornish. And what was your name, please?”
“I’m Mrs. Cool.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Cool, but Mrs. Cornish gave up her apartment rather suddenly.”
“Where did she go?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”