The girl back of the counter spent part of the time on the stool, watching me; part of the time behind the partition, clacking away on the typewriter. I didn’t hear the masculine voice again, but I remembered that warning cough and didn’t try to talk with her. The name on the receipt she had given me was Marian Dunton.
Around five o’clock I went back to the hotel and freshened up. Then I went down to the lobby and waited for her. She came in about six.
“How’s the cocktail bar?” I asked.
“Pretty good.”
“Would cocktails make our dinner taste better?”
“I think they would.”
We had a dry Martini apiece, and I suggested another one. “Are you,” she inquired, “trying to get me tight?”
“On two cocktails?” I asked.
“Experience has taught me that two make a swell beginning.”
“Why should I want to get you tight?”