Tim named the city’s leading hotel. “I’ll be glad to take you there in one of the News’ cars,” he added.
“Thanks, but I’d have to parry too many of your questions.”
“It’s a draw so far,” smiled Tim, “but I’ll bet I know your name before another 24 hours, ‘Mr. Seven.’”
“Why call me ‘Mr. Seven?’”
“That’s what the stewardess did. You were in chair seven coming out from Chicago.”
“It’s as good a name as any other.”
“Except your real one,” interjected Tim.
“Mr. Seven” bundled his bags into a taxi and whirled away toward the city while Tim stood on the ramp and gazed after the car.
“That fellow’s face is familiar,” he muttered half aloud, “and I’m going to dig into our files at the office until I find his picture. Unless my hunch is way wrong, there must be a big story connected with him.”
Tim’s hunches were notoriously right and just how correct this one was, even Tim would never have dared dream.