CHAPTER V
MR. PAUL ZIMMERLEIN'S telephone rang shortly before midnight. He lived in a small, exclusive hotel on one of the crosstown streets, near Fifth Avenue. A brief conversation over the wire ensued. A few minutes later he appeared at the desk in the office downstairs, dressed for the street. He was very angry.
“Why was I not informed when I came in this evening that Mr. Prince had called up and was expecting me to join his party at the Helvetia for supper, Mr. Rogers? He rang me up at nine o'clock and instructed you to put the message in my box.”
“I have no recollection of—”
“Of course you haven't. You never do have any recollection. None of you. I shall take the matter up with the manager in the morning, Rogers. It has happened before. The least you could have done was to stick the message in my box.”
“I will inquire of the telephone operator. The regular boy is off tonight. If there has been any carelessness, Mr. Zimmerlein, it has been with her,—not with us, sir,” said the clerk, with the servility that is sometimes mistaken for civility on the part of hotel clerks.
“I haven't time to listen to her excuses. They have been waiting for me since eleven o'clock, and I have been in my room since ten.”
“I know, sir. It was a little before ten when you came in.”
“Well, be good enough to investigate. I warn you that I intend to complain in the morning.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” began the clerk, but Zimmerlein was already on his way to the street.