“Maybe you could give me a little information,” the detective said.
“I will be glad to be of service, sir.” The deferential reply stressed the word “service” with a slight whistle.
Shayne got out his wallet. He took out a small slip of paper and some one-dollar bills. He folded three of the bills lengthwise and held them between two fingers, extending them toward the clerk while he read the slip of paper: Apartment 303, The Peloine Apartments. He glanced up at the clerk. “The Peloine is next door. Do you happen to know where number three-oh-three would be located in the building?”
The fat clerk had heavy black eyebrows. One brow was puckishly curved higher than the other. He arched the puckish brow higher, glanced at the folded bills, and cleared his throat. “It happens,” he said, whistling through an aperture where a tooth was missing, “that I do know the room layout there. The Peloine is under the same management as this hotel.” He lowered small black eyes to the bills between Shayne’s fingers.
Shayne moved his hand forward. The bills disappeared. “Three-oh-three,” the clerk whistled, “is on the top floor back, sir. It faces this way.”
Shayne refolded the slip of paper and placed it in his wallet. “Opposite approximately which of your rooms?”
The clerk’s brows crawled together like two black, hairy worms, accentuating the deep line above his bulbous nose. He cocked his head on one side and studied Shayne, then asked sternly, “Are you checking in here, or merely looking for information?”
Shayne grinned and picked up the pen. “I intend registering as a guest, if that makes a difference.” He wrote his name with a flourish, adding Miami, Florida, on the address line.
The clerk waddled over to consult a room chart. He said, “Our number three-sixty-two is opposite the apartment you mentioned.”
Shayne lit a cigarette. “Is three-sixty-two vacant?”