A light suit, Michael had said. She found a creamy-beige pongee. Hastily she donned panties, bra, and a slip, then, the suit. Stockings and pumps took another minute. Frantically searching through a drawer for a scarf, she found one of canary-yellow with small black figures. She tied it around her neck, fluffed the ends out, ran a comb through her brown curls, took three one-dollar bills from her purse, and tucked them into her coat pocket. She grabbed a compact and lipstick and raced from the apartment.
It had taken less than five minutes, she thought breathlessly, as she descended the stairs. Another three to reach the Commodore, and she would have two minutes left of the ten Shayne had allotted her for the assignment.
A taxi swerved to the curb. Lucy got in and said, “The Commodore Hotel. And please hurry.”
The cab pulled away with a jerk that sent Lucy back against the seat. Pulling herself erect she opened the compact and leaned forward to apply lipstick and a dusting of powder in the faint glow of light from the meter box.
There was no time to ask herself questions, or to wonder why she had been aroused at this hour to attempt illegal entry to some woman’s room in search of a letter signed by her employer.
To say that this was merely routine, that she was accustomed to such assignments, and accepted them in her stride without question, would be an exaggeration. But several years’ service as secretary to the redheaded detective had taught her something about the nuances in his voice, and his curt orders tonight left her in no doubt as to the urgency of this task.
There would be time for questions later. Right now, Lucy concentrated on getting her face fixed and on achieving enough poise to enter the lobby of a strange hotel and convince the night clerk she was a guest named Mrs. Carrol, who had mislaid the key to her room and, also, foolishly forgotten the number.
The taxi swerved onto Biscayne Boulevard, and pulled up in front of the hotel entrance, with brakes squealing. The meter showed thirty cents. Lucy pressed a dollar bill into the driver’s hand, left the taxi without waiting for change, hurried to the revolving door, and swung through into the empty lobby. She slowed her steps and walked sedately to the desk.
A thin young man tried to hide the end of a prodigious yawn, when he saw her coming. Lucy used her nicest smile when she reached the desk, and tried to look wistful and worried and hopeful at the same time. “I seem to have mislaid my key, or forgot to take it with me. Did I, by any chance, leave it at the desk? I just can’t remember.”
He said, “I’ll see, madam. What number?”