“By himself?”
“No. Some lawyer concocted it, and Bolus is back of it. They’ve lost ten grand, but they still have forty thousand to fight for, and Bolus doesn’t intend to let that go without a struggle.”
“Where do you come in on that?”
“I’m the sheep,” he said, “that’s being led to the slaughter.”
“What do we do here?”
Mason said, “We pay our respects to a man by the name of Herkimer Smith, who’s registered as being from Shreveport, Louisiana, and we don’t let him know we’re coming.”
“Okay. You want to find out his room?”
“Yes.”
Della Street extended her hand. “Gimme.”
Mason gave her a dime, and she walked over to the telephone booth. Mason stood by the open door while she dialed the number of the hotel switchboard and said to the operator, “This is the Credit Department of the Ville de Paris. We have a C.O.D. to send to your hotel to a Mr. Herkimer Smith of Shreveport, Louisiana. It’s a C.O.D. so all we’re interested in is checking on the registration… If you will, please.”