I laughed and said cordially, “Come on up.”
I dropped the receiver into its cradle on the telephone, grabbed my hat, topcoat, and briefcase, made certain the key to the room was in my pocket, slammed the door shut, locked it, and sprinted down the corridor. I slowed down as I neared the elevator shaft, walked past the elevators, on down to a turn in the corridor, and waited.
I heard an elevator door slide open, waited a few seconds, and peered cautiously around the comer.
There was only one man. He was hurrying down the corridor. There was something vaguely familiar about the way he held his shoulders, and that came as a surprise to me. I’d have bet ten to one that the call had been from the cops, making certain I was in the room before they started to sew the place up. The fact that this man was alone and that I really knew him was an agreeable surprise, but I didn’t start down the corridor until I’d placed him, and I didn’t do that until he made the turn to the left.
It was Marco Cutler.
Cutler was knocking at my door for the second time when I joined him. “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Cutler.”
He whirled. “I thought you were in your room.”
“Me! Why, I just came in!”
He looked at the briefcase, the hat, the topcoat, said, I’d have sworn that I recognized your voice. I called your room just now.”
“Must have got the wrong number.”