“There was,” I said dryly. “I made it.”
“You mustn’t let anyone know about what you’re doing or whom you’re working for,” he cautioned. “That’s imperative.”
“Okay,” I said. “I just wanted to know.”
His eyes were fighting fear as I went out. The office nurse looked at me curiously. My money said ten to one she wasn’t Vivian Carter and had never been named as a co-respondent in any divorce action.
My breakfast was long overdue. Santa Carlotta was a city on the through coast highway. It catered to the wealthy tourist trade. There were three swank hotels, half a dozen commercial hotels, and flocks of tourist camps. The restaurants were good. I picked one at random.
I saw a placard in the window. Dr. Alftmont’s features, looking ten years younger, stared out at the street from that placard. I stood at the window and read the printing on the placard:
ELECT Dr. Charles L. Alftmont for MAYOR. Clean up Santa Carlotta. Give crooks a one-way ticket. — Santa Carlotta Municipal Decency League.
I walked in, found a booth, and settled back to the luxury of real orange juice, grapefruit, poached eggs that were fresh and hot on whole-wheat toast that hadn’t been made soggy by having lukewarm water poured over it.
Over coffee and a cigarette, the waitress asked me if I wanted to see the papers. I nodded and, after a moment, she came back rather apologetically and said, “I haven’t a city newspaper available. They’re all in use, but I can give you the local paper, the Ledger.”
I thanked her and took the paper she handed me.