“Where does he live?” I asked.
“Here in the hotel.”
“Naturally. What room?”
“Seven-twenty.”
“Try again,” I said.
She pouted and lowered her eyes. Her nose and chin came up in the air.
I said, “All right, if you feel that way about it,” and folded the ten bucks and started to put it into my pocket. She glanced at the elevator, leaned across, and whispered to me, “Jed Ringold, four-nineteen, but for God’s sake, don’t say I told you, and don’t bust in on him. His sweetie has just gone up.”
I passed her the ten.
The clerk was looking at me, so I fished around a bit, looking over the cigars. “What’s the matter with the clerk?” I asked.
“Jealous,” she said with a little grimace.